


Harbinger

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-20
Updated: 2005-07-20
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 90,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15105962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: The President's health is breaking down at last - but what exactly is the cause?





	1. Harbinger

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Harbinger**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** The President's health is breaking down at last - but what exactly is the cause?  
**Written:** Feb, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2002, between “Stirred” and “Enemies Foreign and Domestic 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 1 ~ 

> "Harbinger" (n.): person or thing that announces or signals the approach  
> of another; forerunner, most often of disaster.

Tuesday. 

It has happened thousands, probably millions of times, throughout the world and throughout history, in political as well as medical scenarios: the slow onset of a debilitating condition, so gradual and so subtle that, even with full hindsight, no one looking back could remember just exactly when it began. 

"Okay." The President of the United States closed one file on his desk and reached for another from an ever-present in-pile. "What's next?" 

"The Internet Education Act will clear Committee tomorrow," Sam Seaborn proudly announced from his seat on one couch in the Oval Office. 

"With its Technology Challenge Fund intact," Josh Lyman added no less proudly. These two young men didn't high-five or make any other physical sign of triumph, but that triumph came across just the same in their smug grins. 

Leo McGarry gave a stiff nod, unsurprised yet content to have the legislative event confirmed. "Good news." He stood nearest the executive desk, as usual, ever on guard. 

"But not _great_ news, since it's now off the campaign table." Toby Ziegler was the only other person standing. He always seemed to be the last of this group to sit down, as though that meant lowering his own guard somehow... or handicapping his quick escape. 

"A lot of people will disagree with you, there, Smiley." This came from C.J. Cregg, occupying the couch opposite Josh and Sam with every sign of comfort - not just physical, but emotional as well, since she dared to tease the moodiest man in the White House. "It won't do anyone any good if it doesn't wind up on this desk right here, and that includes the rural citizens who'll benefit from it the most." 

"Fat lot of good it'll do them to have Internet access if they can't read to begin with," Toby shot back, in a prime mood to argue. The "Smiley" reference might have done it. "Why have we calmly allowed computers to replace good old-fashioned books? What happened to the classic art of designer hardbacks and embossed type? How did page-turning become so completely supplanted by web-browsing? The printing press has been around for over five centuries, it has transformed society and history, and we're prepared to jettison that whole tremendous breakthrough after less than twenty years of computer innovation?" 

Or maybe C.J.'s endearment had less to do with it after all. Obviously something had touched a sore spot. 

"People still need literacy skills to get anything out of Project Gutenberg," Sam pointed out reasonably. "So they carry their reading material in laptops and PDAs instead of backpacks. They can endorse the cool techy image and access e-books from any library in the world. It's the exact same information, and it's comparatively cheap." 

Josh sat up. "Hey, there's a thought: we could push the literacy thing again. All the more reason to get people reading - so that they can take advantage of the growing e-book movement and all the other technological toys out there. These days _anyone_ can use a mouse, and computers are getting more affordable every day." 

"Potential," Leo admitted somewhat cautiously, feeling his way into this concept. "We could dust off a few of the amendments that didn't get through last time, and back up the Act as well. Boost the economy, raise the literacy level, and at least appear to yield less ground on the Tech Fund - which we practically had to give away." 

Toby rolled his eyes. "By all means, let's support the bill that the other party is going to get credited for in the press. This has to be a first for an election year." 

"At least we're not coming across as sore losers," C.J. countered. 

"And how much political currency is _that_ sentiment worth?" 

"Since it has the purely incidental benefit of getting more books out there in electronic format, I'm all for it." Josh smiled at old memories. "When I think of the money I spent on late returns..." 

"Oh, that's nothing," Sam scoffed. "If I fell in love with a book at the library and couldn't find it at the bookstore, I'd sign it out and keep it - and pay the overdue fees until they equaled the value of the book itself." 

"Okay, I want this confession on tape," Leo said with a straight face. 

"At least I paid for them in full. My conscience is clear." Sam could project an air of innocence better than anyone else in this room. "It sure beat buying books you'd never read before in the hope that you'd like them afterwards. That can be dangerous: you look at the cover on the shelf and wonder if it's the kind of writing you dream about, and you won't be happy until you've bought it and found out." 

"I once knew a guy who slept with books," C.J. volunteered out of the blue. 

At the disbelieving looks aimed her way from all sides, she flushed. "It was his way of studying. He believed in osmosis." 

"Don't tell me he _ate_ them, too," Toby all but pleaded. "You know, 'mark, absorb and inwardly digest'?" 

"All right." 

Every head swung about. Some of them might have actually forgotten that their boss - and incidentally, their national leader - was present. All of them realized just now that, until this moment, said boss and leader had taken no part in the preceding discussion. 

Jed Bartlet sat in his plush leather chair behind his handsomely carved desk, pen in hand, left elbow on the blotter, rubbing weary eyes. "Is there any chance this trading of personal histories could be held somewhere else, so that I can get some _concrete_ work done this morning?" 

Several pairs of eyebrows rose ceiling-ward. As a rule, no one loved a debate, or an argument - especially an inane one - more than The Man. But not today, it seemed. 

He looked tired. He _sounded_ tired. 

"Of course, Mr. President," Leo said first, as was his place. They had wandered rather off-topic, anyway. Their Chief Executive's time shouldn't be wasted like this. One nod towards his own office sent the whole staff marching out, all murmuring "Thank you, sir" en route. 

Leo brought up the rear of this retreat, closing the second of two doors between the Chief of Staff's office and the _Oval_ Office. 

"Nice display of focus there, people." He didn't sound _too_ critical, however; he was just as guilty of having been caught up in their verbal meandering at the expense of their purpose. "So, where were we?" 

Josh lounged against one wall, hands in pockets and a hangdog look on his face that Toby himself would have been hard put to surpass. "Wherever we were, I think we're past it now." 

C.J. was staring along their back route, as though she could see right through that polished wood barrier to the historic room they'd just left. 

"Is it just me," she spoke up suddenly, "or does the President look a bit pale today?" 

Whatever everyone else had been thinking, or had been about to say, that simple question overrode all other subjects. 

Sam tilted his head, recollecting. "No... no paler than usual." 

Strangely, C.J. didn't look all that reassured. 

Josh visibly relaxed. "Well, if _I_ had to deal with the five of us on a regular basis, I would've wigged out long ago." 

"You already _have_ wigged out," Sam countered, grinning. 

"Rest my case." 

Leo's gaze slid past them both, deteriorating into a frown. "Toby?" 

The other three turned as well. 

The Communications Director stood towards the rear of this gathering. That was typical of him. What _wasn't_ so typical was the particularly morose expression etched across his features right now. 

One hand rubbed his receding hairline in a thoughtful manner. "I was just thinking about what Sam said a moment ago." 

He paused. Few among this group ever interrupted a Ziegler pause. He used them the same way he used words: with specific intent. 

"Since when have we considered it normal for the President to look pale?" 

* * *

I can't figure out this weariness. I used to deal with these guys five times a day and never break a sweat. 

The nights are too short. Huh; I always got by okay on four or five hours - and not long ago, either. I must be getting old. 

Forget _that._ Nothing that some good news from the campaign front couldn't cure. 

* * *

Wednesday. 

American presidential elections are held every four years in November. Theoretically, campaigning doesn't start until June or so of that year. 

Realistically, campaigning in one form or another occupies the _entire_ year, and usually a good chunk of the year preceding. In fact, any President in his first term is more than likely to have his eye on the next election for most of those forty-eight months: planning, calculating, laying the groundwork long in advance. No wonder the process is so expensive. 

"So the electoral math tells us that the South is lost?" The President turned a page of his report as he slowly paced in a circle around the Roosevelt Room's gleaming conference table. Long practice kept him to that narrow track between the cushioned chairs and the various other furniture pieces against all walls without even glancing up. 

"Don't think of it as lost and beyond all recovery." C.J. kept her seat at the table, but craned her neck to follow his every movement. That called for a real owl-like maneuver when he passed directly behind her. "Think of it as an opportunity to show those states personally why you won the _last_ election." 

This time Bartlet paused and looked up, studying her over his reading glasses. "One reason I won was because my Vice President is Texan. Everyone knows it. How will it be any different this time?" 

"Yeah, but that wasn't the _only_ reason, sir." Josh, the only other person present for this, propped his arms across his copy of the same report. "No one votes for a vice-presidential candidate only because of where he's from; not without at least considering the qualities of the _presidential_ candidate. Hoynes just broke the tie for those in the South who were still dithering." The Deputy Chief of Staff grew more animated. "You laid the groundwork yourself, and we've built on that foundation ever since. Now let's go down there and show them what they've _really_ got: two for the price of one!" 

C.J. lowered the water bottle she'd just picked up without taking a sip, her eyes wide. "You're thinking of them campaigning _together?_ Side by side?" 

"As much as possible, yeah! We could really paint a picture of partnership, and not _just_ between the North and the South." The Deputy Chief of Staff gestured with both arms, as though finger-painting on an atmospheric canvas right before them. 

"The Civil War's _over,_ Josh, in case you missed that headline." 

Josh grinned. "You don't sound too sure of that yourself." He idly shoved aside a few of the cartons containing the wreckage of their joint lunch. 

The Press Secretary sighed. "Maybe because I know better." 

A thoughtful silence fell. 

Then, all at once and in perfect unison, both staff members rotated towards their boss. 

He stood motionless, staring into space, oblivious to either of them. 

Josh and C.J. glanced at each other, a little pensive. How long had their Commander-in-Chief been ignoring them? 

More to the point, how long had _they_ been ignoring _him?_

C.J. kept her voice low, not wanting to completely derail whatever important ideas might be churning behind those distant blue eyes. "Sir?" 

For one distinct heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, with a twitch, Bartlet returned to this plane of existence. "Huh?" 

"We... were just talking about the Civil War." Josh deliberately chose the light-hearted angle, fishing to see how much their leader had missed. 

The Man exhibited some small surprise, but no humor - as he should have done. "Well, why not? Only an historian would tell you that it's over. Certainly the sociologists _and_ the politicians know better." 

C.J. displayed a visible flash of concern. The President must have totally zoned out for several seconds to be so unaware that she'd just said much the same thing. 

Fortunately, he didn't notice her reaction. His reading and his pacing recommenced. "As an economist, I'm not sure whether to be impressed with the skill people have used to come up with these calculations, or disgusted with the way they're using these calculations to justify their own existence." He rubbed his forehead for a moment. "Come on, let's finish this." 

Neither staffer commented. Not aloud, at any rate. 

* * *

I'm tired. I need a vacation. 

Man, I must _really_ be tired if I'm willing to even _consider_ that. Besides, the election's in _six months_. It's not like I have time to spare or anything. 

Funny how just the thought of campaigning makes me feel exhausted. And I used to get so fired up at the idea of meeting the people. 

I wonder if knowing that it'll be my last election _ever_ has anything to do with it. All or nothing. 

Well, I can promise this: it sure won't be "nothing." 

* * *

Thursday. 

Election year or not, there are any number of occasions where the President is to speak before some kind of gathering. This requires a tremendous amount of preparation: scheduling, security... speech-writing. 

For times like this, the fine art of word composition cannot be overstated. Political careers are especially vulnerable to weak, erroneous or ill-conceived comments. Every sentence has to be crafted so very carefully against such pitfalls, to the point where one might wonder how much of the speaker is still in the speech. 

"How about if we cut this line... and... move this paragraph up here... and maybe we should punch up the transportation section a bit more?" Sam pointed to each segment on paper as he spoke, brow furrowed in concentration. One could almost see the sentences and phrases tumbling around in his head like so many gemstones, getting buffed here and polished there, until they fell into the optimum place in their best possible appearance and meaning. 

Bartlet cocked an eyebrow at this earnest young man standing right beside him. "Sam, you know I'm all for perfection. But trust me here: speeches are not so different from children. No matter how much you want to mold them and coddle them and shape them the very best you can, there comes a time when you have to let them go." 

The Deputy Communications Director drew back a step at this deadpan tone, then accepted the comment in the spirit in which it was intended. "I'll remember that, sir, for whenever I happen to start a family." 

"Good." The President adjusted his glasses, still perusing the speech before him, but a smile peeked out despite his nonchalance. 

"If you ever get the _chance_ to start a family." Toby slouched in a seat in the front row of the otherwise empty Press Room. "If you stop second-guessing yourself _and me._ If we ever get finished here, and don't waste away and die in this very room!" 

"You two can feel perfectly free to do so. I'm sure someone would come and get _me_ before that point." Bartlet penned a couple of notes in the margins. "Punch it up later if you want to. But I think we're at least ready enough to give this thing a test drive." 

"Yes, sir." Sam hopped down from the dais and claimed a seat for himself, two over from his intermediate boss. "And I pity any future children _you_ might have," he threw sideways, sotto vocce. 

Before Toby could riposte to that, their leader straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. Even when reading a mere draft, and with only a staffer or two for an audience, every time he spoke from a podium he seemed to grow taller. His presence expanded outward. 

"This is a day like countless others in the history of our nation and of our race: where people live, and work, and gather, and converse... where the normal routine of existence trundles onward undisturbed. But this _could_ become a day when destiny strikes like lightning - when ordinary people attempt extraordinary things for the benefit of others. This _can_ become such a day, right now... if we dare to make it so." 

Toby shifted in his chair so that he was leaning towards Sam rather than away. "I still say this sounds pretty soapy on paper," he muttered. 

"But not in person, huh?" His deputy didn't take the slightest umbrage. "Name one other speaker alive today who can deliver with such impact." 

"Our forefathers didn't build this new land with the intention that it would evolve to a certain point and then stop - even at the high standards and accomplishments we've achieved in the past century alone. They didn't plan for stagnation. Neither should we." 

"I know." Toby shook his head. "What surprises me is that he _continues_ to surprise me." 

Sam kept his eyes and most of his attention on Bartlet's oratory, but he still found enough spare brain cells to formulate a reply. "Yet another reason to love your job, huh?" 

"It is a fundamental law of life that if a person does not keep growing, that person dies. A nation is no different. A _government_ is no different..." 

Any possible retort from Toby was truncated again - this time, by... silence. 

Silence where there should not _be_ silence. 

The President stood before the deactivated microphone, eyes scanning the material before him. But for some unknown reason, he had stopped reading it aloud. In fact, he stood frozen - much the same way a performer might react if he were on stage or before the cameras and suddenly forgot his lines. 

Except that here, the lines were right in front of him. 

The seconds ticked by. Toby and Sam looked at each other, then back. Both could read the subtle signs of confusion on their Chief Executive's face... as though he'd come to a paragraph in a completely foreign language. 

And since he already spoke three languages beside English... 

Finally Sam couldn't take this strange and inexplicable tension any longer. "Mr. President?" 

Bartlet blinked twice, still staring at the pages on the stand under his fingertips. Then a swift wave of relief washed over him. 

"Now that was weird. For a moment there..." 

Toby sat forward alertly, quite prepared to charge if The Man suddenly needed physical support. "Are you all right, sir?" 

Something in that query, or in that pose, seemed to trigger a kind of self-defense mechanism. The President drew himself up at once. "I'm fine." 

Sam was already on his feet. "What happened?" 

"Nothing. Forget it." 

That would be well-nigh impossible to do. "Sir -" 

" _Forget_ it." _That_ was an order, make no mistake. Bartlet adjusted his glasses again - a pointless gesture, as they were already in place - and frowned down at his speech. "Let's take it from the top." 

Slowly, Sam backed off. He didn't like it, but he went back to his seat without further protest. 

Toby did not relax in _his_ seat, his eyes bright and narrowed from the unknown thoughts swirling behind them. 

* * *

I've never had _that_ happen before. It's as if, for several heartbeats there, I literally forgot how to read. I knew the words, but they made no sense at all. Strange. 

Ah, it's nothing. Just so long as we work out the bugs beforehand. _All_ of them. 

Still, I wonder if the others have noticed anything about this persistent tiredness. Hopefully, not enough to remember it. 

Either way, I didn't need to be quite so short with these guys... 

I just really hate any questions about how I feel. We've been through that _more_ than enough! Right now there's nothing wrong with me. 


	2. Harbinger 2

**Harbinger**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** The President's health is breaking down at last - but what exactly is the cause?  
**Written:** Feb, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2002, between “Stirred” and “Enemies Foreign and Domestic 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 2 ~ 

Friday. 

The West Wing of the White House is given over entirely to the Presidential staff. In much the same fashion, the East Wing is the undisputed realm of the First Lady. However, since one set of staffers is naturally smaller than the other, a few extra positions - not policy or communications oriented, but certain neutral personnel needed by both sides - have to be "banished" to available office space eastward. 

Rest assured that few ever complain. The East Wing is more decorous by far, and it still falls under that supremely prestigious address without equal in the entire nation: 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. 

Carol moved through the less familiar east-side halls, checking door labels until she found _Patricia Podolska - White House Social Director._ She knocked. 

"Come in." 

She obeyed. "Patricia?" 

"Make that 'Trish' and you'll get an affirmative," the woman behind the desk corrected her, peering up through heavy-rimmed eyeglasses. 

"All right; 'Trish' it is. I'm Carol, C.J. Cregg's assistant." 

The Social Director rose and extended a hand. "She's mentioned you, of course. Nice to put a face to the name." 

Carol smiled. "The reverse is also true. Sorry it was the _wrong_ name." 

"The whole thing is a tongue-twister, I know. I'm still blaming my parents for that. Besides, there are already enough women's names ending in 'a' around here." Obviously Trish felt that one's identity was important. 

"I'll tell C.J. for you if you'd like." 

"What I wish is that someone would tell the President. He still calls me 'Patti.'" Trish shook her head resignedly. "As if there isn't a wealth of names ending in 'ee' as well. And not just female ones, either." 

Carol's grin widened. "Why don't you tell him yourself?" she invited, knowing exactly what reaction to expect. 

Sure enough, Trish produced a look of total disbelief. "I am _not_ going to stand in the Oval Office and correct _him._ Besides, odds are he'd forget before my next visit, anyway." 

Carol rolled her eyes in vivid agreement. "Well, I like 'Trish' myself. It reminds me of 'Tish,' as in 'Morticia'." 

That produced another stare, this time of wonder. "My, how ominous. Don't let that get around, or else they won't let me anywhere near him." Trish sat down, grinning despite herself. "Now, what can I do you for?" 

"Oh, right. C.J. needs the final printout of dates and times for next week's events. She briefs on it this afternoon. She's in a meeting right now, so she sent me." 

"Sure thing. It's just ready." Trish started rummaging for the file. 

"Anything in the works for this weekend?" 

"Not so far. We _might_ have a couple of days off after all. Ah, here it is." The document came to light: a document that - supposedly - laid out every single activity for the entire White House seven days in advance, with no room for deviation. "Of course, that's no guarantee _someone_ won't find a way to foul things up, just to keep us from getting complacent." 

"I'm not placing bets, either. Been there, done that, couldn't afford the T-shirt." Carol accepted the schedule and paged quickly through it. "By the way," she continued with deceptive casualness, "you meet with the President every Friday, right?" 

"Yeah, we discuss his upcoming schedule at the end of each week. Why?" 

"Well, C.J. wants me to ask you for a favor." 

Carol took a deep breath. This was more than sufficient to lock down the Social Director's attention and make her a bit nervous as to just how big the proposed favor would be. 

All at once C.J.'s assistant found words strangely difficult. "If you should happen to notice anything - _untoward_ about him... tiredness, paleness, that sort of thing... either now or in the future... we'd really appreciate it if you could let us know." 

Clouds gathered almost visibly over Trish's head as she contemplated this request: most unusual, and definitely meriting concern. 

* * *

In many circles, and in many circumstances, timing is critical. A victorious mood can accept the news of disaster with less urgency than perhaps it should; depression can often make triumph seem less joyous than it is. Either way, the impact of any kind of news depends upon the attitude of the recipient. 

Margaret approached the Chief of Staff's inner office door, which was closed against the world, knocked three times in her trademark rhythm (tap, tap, rest, tap), and entered without awaiting an invitation to do so. 

"Yeah, Margaret, what?" Hard at work, Leo didn't even glance at her. It could be no one else. 

She hesitated at the three-yard mark, then stepped right up and presented a thin folder. 

"From the current Governor of New Hampshire." 

That caught his full attention, as she'd well known it would. He dropped the papers he'd been reading and placed this new report on top. His secretary didn't leave, in case she might be needed at once. 

It took only moments: Leo's features went slack, and his shoulders sagged. 

"Just what we need today. I mean, we knew it was coming, but of course it would _have_ to come now." He exhaled. "Not that there would ever be a _good_ time. When is it _ever_ a good time for bad news?" 

Margaret watched her boss closely, searching for clues to her next step. When none seemed forthcoming, she took the initiative. "Anything I can do?" 

He removed his spectacles and rose. "Head for the bomb shelter in the basement?" His tone was flat, entirely devoid of humor. "Unless _you_ want to tell the President that one of his pet projects in his home state is not to be." 

Her eyes bugged in real fear. "I'm gone." 

Leo watched her rapid exit, a wry half-smile tugging briefly at his mouth. Then that faint trace of amusement fled. He buttoned his blazer with the fatalistic air of a medieval knight buckling heavy armor into place, picked up the offending report, and headed next door. 

"Mr. President?" 

Just as Leo had not looked up at his secretary's unmistakable arrival, so Bartlet barely reacted to the entrance of his right-hand man. "Yeah, Leo, what?" he muttered, wading through the briefs that all but buried his desk. 

The Chief of Staff walked over rather more slowly than usual - almost exactly as Margaret had done moments ago. His boss was too preoccupied with his own paperwork to notice, until this new dossier appeared on the blotter before him. 

"The education report from Concorde, sir." 

The President went still. Then, inch by inch, his head lifted until he could see the cover, with its neatly typed label. 

Plainly he had no doubt as to what information it contained. 

"They vetoed it." His usually bright eyes were dark, under even darker brows. 

Leo discreetly retreated a step from the explosion to come. "Yeah." 

Bartlet sat back, as though not wanting to contaminate himself by even touching those pages. His vision turned towards the heavens; his lips tightened. A raging quiet grew, and grew... 

Leo didn't wait for critical mass to be reached. "Sir, we knew they were going to," he said placatingly, almost desperately. "There's nothing more you could have done..." 

"I know." 

And just like that, the threat of carnage evaporated. The President heaved one sigh, releasing a dangerous tension; then, wearily, he dismissed the whole thing. 

"Well, life goes on. With or without sufficient school funding." Shoving that dossier aside in disgust, he went back to work. 

Leo stood there for several seconds, looking positively amazed. He needed those seconds just to find words. "That's it?" 

This time Bartlet met his eye directly. "What? You were expecting a tantrum or two? I'm flattered, Leo. Sorry to deprive you of the high point to your day. But what's the use?" His voice dropped instead of rising, less like a tirade of anger and more like an admission of defeat. "If they choose not to believe that economics classes at the pre-secondary level would be the huge benefit that I _know_ it would be, that's _their_ mistake." The scowl gave way to resignation. "Never mind that kids in the future will lose that benefit. Never mind that economics at the _post_ -secondary level already presume a strong background in math, something a lot of high school students will either pass up or flunk, which means they won't even be eligible. Never mind that good financial management habits can be applied to every aspect of your life." 

The President pivoted his chair and gazed out the window, deeply disappointed yet fairly calm. "I was never interested in having my name on the proposal, or anything like that, but I did my damnedest to get my point across. This shouldn't be political; this is our grandchildren we're talking about. If politicians won't listen to the voice of experience, if they feel threatened by what they see as Washington meddling in state affairs, or if they just get a juvenile pleasure out of reminding me that there's now someone else sitting in the chair _I_ used to occupy - and _enjoyed_ occupying - then I can't realistically hope to accomplish much." 

Leo stood stock-still on the blue oval carpet, his own thoughts spiraling. 

Was this mere pragmatism - and from a notoriously optimistic (and combative) Commander-in-Chief at that? Or did he genuinely lack the emotional energy to care any longer about something that used to be so important to him? 

* * *

Damn it all, why won't these guys listen to common sense? 

Okay, if it's coming from this office, they're probably the first to say that it can't possibly _be_ common sense... 

Then again, I probably wasn't much different in my way of thinking when I held the governorship myself. How one's perspective changes. 

Still, I would've really liked to see those classes take off. Not so much as a legacy; that's not the point. But it sure would've done wonders for a lot of kids' careers. 

But what can you do? This democracy has to function a certain way, with the usual host of rules and restrictions. And I have so much on my plate right now... 

One positive note: this is just the sort of D.C. idiocy that used to get under my hide the most. I must be building up a tolerance at last. Good news.

* * *

Monday - morning. 

It is the way of all nature to heal an injury, to fill an emptiness. After a volcano erupts, wind and rain begin at once to wear down the gaping scars. When a tree falls, new plant growth quickly springs up into the hole it has left. When one animal dies, another takes its place. Whatever the tragedy, life continues for those that remain. This is a law so basic that even the human race must comply. 

However, only the human race memorializes its predecessors, and preserves space as a tribute. 

Charlie Young walked briskly into reception outside the Oval Office. "Good morning, Mrs. Beausoleil." 

Many people in the White House still felt that the desk opposite his belonged exclusively and eternally to Delores Landingham - not least Jed Bartlet himself. However, almost a year after her death, the time had finally come to assign that desk a new owner. 

There was little realistic choice in the matter. Business, like life, goes on no matter how much it may hurt. 

The woman who currently presumed to occupy that sacred spot raised an eyebrow. "'Ruth' will do fine, Charlie. I've told you before." 

The personal assistant to the President smiled, white teeth brilliant against his dark skin. "I know; I just like saying it." 

She grinned in return, then ran a hand through her short, startlingly silver hair. "If only everyone around here were as easily cheered by so simple a thing as a name." 

Charlie stopped short, nerves gearing up fast. "The morning's gone sour already?" 

"Well, not just yet. We should still have a couple of hours' grace." Apparently Ruth had been here long enough to see examples of the shot-to-hell schedule ritual in this place. 

He put down his carry-case and studied her soberly. "Then I'd bet it's more of a mood thing, huh?" 

She raised a dismissive hand at once. "Oh, I'm not complaining. They warned me that the President would probably go through a string of candidates, no matter how qualified they were, before he got used to the idea of anyone else sitting here." 

Charlie nodded in full understanding. "Kind of hard to explain on the résumé, though." Just imagine how being transferred after failing to earn the President's personal approval would look to a future employer. 

"Rather." This contender for the position of executive secretary glanced around her auspicious location. "I'm delighted to have lasted ten days so far - and me the first choice at that." She paused. "Then too, today may be less about mood and more about tiredness. If what I've already heard about this past weekend is true, then I've never known a man to get by on less sleep." 

The President's body man looked wise beyond his years... and resigned as well. "Comes from living over the shop, especially in an election year. It's not going to end anytime soon, either. But don't worry: you're taking it in stride - and _him,_ too." 

Ruth inclined her head in acknowledgment of the compliment. "Everyone has their moods, their way of dealing with pressure... and with grief." 

"Ain't that the truth." Charlie headed for his own desk. "And name one other building in the world that's got more pressures than this one." 

Still, his tone indicated that he wasn't complaining either. To both of them, the stress that inevitably filtered down to their own desks mattered little when they could work in such an extraordinary place, and with such an extraordinary man.

* * *

The amount of general work that falls into the lap of any national leader is never-ending. The amount of debate, bartering and finagling that a _democratic_ leader all too often has to put up with can truly defy belief. The number of checks, balances, restrictions and barriers surrounding what is popularly billed as the most powerful position in the world calls that billing into serious question. 

Isn't it funny how people can design something that will work with great efficiency, and then invent myriad ways to handicap it on all sides, all the while believing that such amendments are actually for the better. 

"So the quote on the last page here for the new Lancelot armaments is final?" 

"Yes, Mr. President." 

"Which means that the only puzzle left is where we're going to get all those zeroes." Bartlet shook his head as he peered at the bottom line once more. "Well, that's the Pentagon's problem; I only worry about minor details like national health initiatives. Anything else?" 

"No, Mr. President." 

"All right. Thanks." 

"Thank you, Mr. President." 

Following their senior officer's lead, the other gathered military personnel all stood and offered their own gratitude in chorus. Then, as though the whole scene had been choreographed in advance, they gathered up their folders, tucked peaked caps neatly under the left arm of their dress uniforms, and marched out of the Oval Office. 

The youngest person present, most definitely not an officer, had been seated silently at the very back of this medal-bedecked company. Now he hurried to collect his notes and follow his superiors, avoiding any attention from the executive desk and the man who sat behind it. 

Four members of the Senior Staff waited just outside for their own meeting; they gave ground at once to let this impressive contingent from the Armed Forces pass by. 

Sam spotted the man trailing, and his eyes lit up. "Hey, Bart." 

This young soldier, about the same age, almost jumped out of his shoes at even that relatively low volume. Then he whirled in genuine anger. " _Don't_ call me that!" 

The Deputy Communications Director grinned good-naturedly and fell into step, pacing him down the hall. "Well, Sergeant Yantze, it _is_ your name. Can't do much about it. So, how do you like stenography?" 

Yantze kept his voice down so as to not attract the notice of the officers just ahead. "This was my second meeting. It's still early to tell for sure." 

"I see." Sam waited one beat, watching carefully. "Have you told the President yet?" 

The sergeant's eyes grew wider than most Caucasians would believe could be possible for one of Oriental background. "Are you out of your _mind?_ My job is to sit at the back, record every word and draw no attention to myself. Besides, I am not going to go in _there_ and tell _him_ what my name is." He used that pronoun as though referring to deity. 

"Why not? I guarantee he wouldn't forget it like he does so many others around here." Sam was clearly enjoying himself. 

"Come _on_ \- it'd be like an insult. Besides, I don't _want_ his notice. I'm doing my best to _avoid_ his notice." Then suddenly Bart turned in mid-stride, struck by an unpleasant suspicion. "Sam, if _you_ tell him -" 

"Relax! He _is_ human, you know." 

"No, he's _not._ He's the _President._ " 

"Either way, he's not going to take off your head because your parents chose a first name so similar to the _last_ name of a man who wasn't even thinking about the Presidency back then, and when you were kind of young to plan on working in the White House at the exact same time." Sam clapped his friend on one shoulder. "Lighten up." 

"Easy for _you_ to say; you're too valuable to be killed. I'm expendable." The military stenographer gave a not-entirely-faked shiver. "I gotta go." He lengthened his stride, as much to escape this teasing interrogation as to catch up with his departing cohort. 

"Kick that inferiority complex!" Sam called after him. Then, smirking, he about-faced and hurried back to the Oval. 

"So the Lancelot package has the all-clear?" Leo clarified, again standing near that carved desk. 

"Yep, we're one step closer to world annihilation." Bartlet exhaled heavily. "Let's celebrate." He glanced up in time to see Sam slip in and close the door behind him. "All right. I have the Secretary of State right after you guys, followed by half a dozen tribal elders from the First Nations. Let's get cracking." 

They all got the idea: this would be a meeting on the run. No one made a move for the couches. It fell to Leo to play traffic cop, as usual. "Josh." 

"Bennett is still making waves about the dinner Thursday. He keeps insisting he'll stonewall on Bill 545 if he's not allowed to add a few _personal_ friends to his table." Josh tried to maintain an even tone, but a note of disgust still crept in at this blatant buying and selling of political support. It amounted to legalized bribery, pure and simple. 

The President was on the exact same wavelength. "Oh, sure - so that he can suck up to his own big business fan club even more than he already is. If I could sell tickets to these casual parties I like to throw in the privacy of my own home, I'd pay down the national debt within a couple of years." He made it sound as though his home were the same as any other citizen's personal retreat rather than the historical and political treasure of the entire country, where a formal invitation meant more than the keys to Fort Knox. "Even if he didn't need us more than we need him, I'm not about to be blackmailed. Straighten him out on that; he can take it or leave it. Sets a good example for the _next_ whiner." 

Josh hesitated. Usually in a scenario like this, Bartlet would at least consider all the angles, and more often than not he agreed to play by D.C. rules. A democratic leader can't survive without the political support of others, and a White House occasion is a prime form of currency. Even if the Oval Office is supposed to be above such seedy under-the-table dealing, most Chief Executives simply cannot maintain that altruistic, impractical attitude. The Deputy Chief of Staff glanced at the other staffers around him before he muttered his obligatory "Yes, sir." 

Leo frowned at this for the same reason, but said nothing. He just nodded to Toby. 

The Director of Communications stepped forward. "We have another draft of tomorrow's Industry speech ready for you, Mr. President." 

This time Bartlet didn't look up at all from his paperwork. "Good." 

Toby paused, obviously hoping for more than that. "It would help if we went over a few points in advance." 

"Whatever those points are, you have my trust and my blessing. Talk to Charlie and fit in a run-through later today. That's all I'll need." The President dismissed the entire subject. 

Another round of glances scurried between the gathered faces. 

Toby sighed, seeing no point in pursuing this further just now. "Yes, sir." 

C.J. was next. "About the Industry thing..." She paused, testing the executive waters that felt rather less warm and familiar than usual. "I've got a board of directors and a posse of reporters both clamoring for more time afterwards. The thirty minutes we've allotted isn't long enough for questions _and_ photos -" 

"Whatever's needed." Bartlet turned a page of the report in front of him. He appeared to be dividing his attention easily... but then, his reply contained no specifics and could have been a brush-off to almost any subject one might name. How much attention was he really paying? "You're the expert. Just get me out of there before midnight." 

He was also in full delegating mode this morning. The Press Secretary rubbed a hand under her chin in eloquent anxiety. Still, there was little she could do. "Yes, sir." 

The last staff member present took a careful breath, bracing himself. "About Bill 545 -" 

That was as far as he ever got. "Screw it. That's not going anywhere for another week at least. We'll worry about it then." The President massaged his forehead, missing Sam's vivid expression of disbelief at being so summarily cut off. "Anything else?" 

Finally Leo took the bull by the horns. "A severely overworked third of the federal government." 

Silence. None of the five standing dared to so much as twitch. 

At long last, Bartlet straightened in his chair. 

"I'll say this for you, Leo," he all but growled, breaking the nervous quiet. "You're getting a _bit_ more subtle in your old age." 

His Chief of Staff did not flinch. "Whatever works, sir. You're pushing yourself a _bit_ too hard lately. These all-weekend marathons have got to stop." 

"I'm fine." With two words Bartlet jettisoned this discussion even more firmly than he had the ones before. 

"Yes, sir, you are." Leo surprised just about everyone by agreeing, the last thing any of them had expected. "But you soon _won't_ be, if you drive yourself to exhaustion." 

The President scowled even more deeply. "Any cracks about my driving skills and you'll regret it." 

Getting nowhere with blunt honesty, Leo decided to try some humor. "Now that you mention it, there was the time you put a car-sized hole in your garage door -" 

In almost every scene like this one, one good joke would always engender another. Today Bartlet opted for ignoring it. "Go away." Nor did his command have the usual softening lilt to it, either. 

Leo knew when pushing would get none of them anywhere. There would be a later time, hopefully with a less harried Commander-in-Chief prepared to listen. "Yes, sir." 

The rest of the Senior Staff was watching him, not their elected leader. He had nothing more for them than a helpless shrug. They took this cue and reluctantly filed out. 

Josh led the way down the hall. "Now that was beyond weird." 

" _Weird_ doesn't begin to cover it." Sam looked more unhappy than any of them. "I didn't even get a _chance._ " 

"He knows better than to let you pick up momentum." 

"Thanks. Glad to know my contribution is so welcome." 

"Get over your complex, Sam," Toby advised gruffly. 

His deputy blinked. "Boy, there's an echo around here someplace." 

"Well, we can't let you take _all_ the credit. Each of us deserves some of the blame." No one could do guilt better than Toby. 

"Don't flatter yourself." C.J. brought up the rear, if only because she'd happened to be first into the Oval Office, and therefore last to leave, and the corridors were too busy to let her pass anyone just yet. Her voice dropped self-consciously; any of the countless other employees on all sides might overhear a phrase or two and jump to conclusions. "He's doing this to himself with no help from us." 

Toby snarled - literally. "Yeah, maybe that's my point! We're not _helping!_ " 

"You think it's another bout of sleeplessness?" Josh threw a glance over one shoulder. 

Sam jumped to the next association. "Should we call Stanley?" 

Toby glowered at him. "Don't you look at _me_ like that. I'm not the cause this time." 

"This is more than tiredness. His _moods_ are shifting as well." 

"We need to get him to ease up," Josh stated, imparting all the wisdom of the only obvious answer. 

C.J. let out a sigh of pure exasperation - and despair. "Good luck." 

* * *

I'm being a wuss! The President should be able to take this, and _more._ It's just a little less sleep and a little more work. There's no reason for me to act like such a grouch. 

I can imagine what those guys are thinking right about now. They must be taking mother-hen lessons from Leo. It's reassuring, and it's almost cute. But I don't need coddling. They're really starting to cramp my style. 

Don't they know by now how much work comes across this desk? If _I_ don't do it, it won't happen. So you can bet the House it's going to get done. 

I can take things easy after the election. Not before. 


	3. Harbinger 3

**Harbinger**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** The President's health is breaking down at last - but what exactly is the cause?  
**Written:** Feb, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2002, between “Stirred” and “Enemies Foreign and Domestic 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 3 ~ 

Monday - afternoon. 

In politics, _truth_ is a very elastic term. Not just in interpretation, either, but in _usefulness._ If it can't be exploited for direct gain, then it's a liability. As a result, all too often it's twisted, ignored or even suppressed. Truth is not only how you see things, but how you tell them... and the more power in your corner, the more weight your version will carry. 

Still, there are some forces that even the Oval Office can't intimidate. 

Charlie led the way from the main corridor towards his desk. "The President will be here in just a few moments." He didn't invite his visitors to sit; but then, there were never many chairs in this reception room. To make up for that a bit, he remained standing himself. 

"Oh, not a problem." The gentleman on his heels stared about them in downright awe, soaking up every detail to remember forever. "Don't let him rush on our account." 

His companion, who could not have been over five, looked somewhat less impressed. "Where are we?" she asked, a little nervous at her unfamiliar surroundings. 

Her father sighed indulgently. "I've told you at least three times already, sweetheart. We're in the White House. See there?" He knelt and pointed towards the closed door just ahead. "That's the office of the President of the United States." 

"Oh." It took more than a white door to hold this youngster's attention. She turned towards the other desk and the woman behind it, barely visible from her low height. "My name is Angella." She stressed the second syllable. "What's yours?" 

"I'm Ruth." The executive secretary smiled down at her. 

The child merely nodded and kept turning, on the lookout for a subject of greater interest. She'd already met Charlie, so he didn't count. She glanced at the other person close by, once... and then again. 

"I'm Janet." This dark-skinned woman smiled as well. Tendrils sprang from the hair-clip securing long black tresses out of her way. 

Angella reacted, not to the name, nor to the smile, but to the large metal object in hand. It conveniently distracted her from introducing herself to the phalanx of black-suited agents also nearby. She just had to get a closer look. "What's that?" 

"This is a camera." Janet knelt down and extended her equipment for official inspection. "It takes photographs. I take photographs of people with the President, so that they can have a picture to keep of when they met him." 

"Oh, Daddy has one of those. But it's a lot smaller." The girl wrinkled her pert little nose, searching for recognition. "This looks weird." 

"Better not touch it, darling," the girl's father warned quickly. "That thing must cost almost as much as you do." 

"Well, it probably _weighs_ almost as much, at least." Still grinning, Janet angled the delicate lens away from pudgy fingers. The huge flashgun mounted beside the camera body made the whole apparatus look large, asymmetrical and formidable. 

"Danny takes lots of pictures. He tells me to say 'Funny Bunny'." 

Charlie swallowed his urge to snicker. 

Janet laughed out loud. "I'll remember that." 

"I always used plain old 'Cheese' with _my_ daughters," said a new voice. "Guess I'm showing my age." 

Everyone turned at once. Janet rose to her feet. 

The older visitor straightened to military attention. "Mr. President!" 

His child moved closer to her source of protection, cautiously sizing up this new arrival, clearly not sure yet just what to think. 

"Ambassador. Good to see you again." Bartlet extended a hand. 

"Thank you very much, sir." The dignitary accepted the clasp firmly, then laid a gentle hand on the blond curls hovering near his waist. "This is Angella." 

"And here I thought only _my_ kids were allowed to look that cute." The President crouched so that he was closer to the same eye level. "You're quite the little angel, aren't you?" 

Many children would have either blushed or cringed with shyness towards a stranger paying them special attention. However, this executive approach was precisely designed to be non-threatening. Her initial anxiety cleared. "Daddy tells me that all the time." 

Bartlet smiled. "Sounds like your dad is a smart man. But then I knew that already, or else neither of you would be here right now. And that would be a real shame. Come on in." He let the way into his historical office. 

Janet followed. Charlie closed the door behind them. 

The President stopped in front of his desk and turned. "You're looking depressingly fit, Reuben. The Land Down Under must agree with you." 

The Ambassador for the United States to Australia shook his head. "I don't know, sir; it's managed to upset my sense of balance. They're just starting winter." 

"A good time for you to head north, then." His host waved a genial invitation. "Get over here. Angella missed your official appointment, so let's make it up to her." 

Janet waited, silent and patient, until the two men succeeded in cajoling the little girl to join them before the carpeted Seal. Then she started firing off the jumbo flash, trying to capture as many frames in as little time as possible before one particular subject grew too restless. 

"Can you still see, Angella?" she asked at one point. "I'm not blinding you, am I?" 

The child shook her head. "Wow - you shoot _big_ pictures!" 

How anyone could deduce the size of the photograph from the size of the camera flash is just one of the marvels of children's logic. The White House photographer grinned at this compliment. "Thank you." 

Angella glanced up at the stranger standing beside her father. "You shoot him a lot?" 

This time, Janet couldn't prevent a wince. "I... wouldn't put it quite _that_ way." 

Reuben winced as well. "No, I'm sure you _don't._ " 

The girl looked from face to face in confusion. "Daddy shoots all the time." 

The photographer turned to her boss for help. "Don't ask _me_ to explain," he demurred, rolling his eyes in amusement. 

Janet scrambled for safer ground. "Hey, would you like to take a picture yourself?" She relaxed at Angella's burst of excitement and helped her look through the viewfinder, supporting the majority of the camera's considerable mass all the while. 

The ambassador delightedly watched his diminutive daughter photograph her father with the leader of the free world. "How are things going, Mr. President?" 

Bartlet shrugged noncommittally. "Oh, I'm sure you know. Campaign problems, budget problems, legislative problems..." 

"Same old, huh? Boy, there are times when I'm so glad I moved out of town." 

"There are times when I'd give my eyeteeth to follow you." 

"And you, sir; how are _you_ doing?" Reuben pressed, as gently and discreetly as anyone could wish. 

No offense was taken. "Some days, I'm feeling my oats. Some days, I'm feeling my _age._ Come on - you can't have forgotten the fun when a federal election rolls around!" 

Suddenly losing interest in the fine art of photography, Angella returned the camera and came over to stand in front of her national leader, her eyes wide with innocence. 

"Are you feeling sick?" 

Everyone froze. 

Only the experience of umpteen awkward moments on countless topics throughout his political career enabled the President to recover smoothly. His meet-the-people grin barely slipped. Nor did he dismiss her like a child when she so clearly wanted to be an adult with them and take part in this conversation. "Not at all. I'm just very busy these days." 

Janet exhaled quietly. 

Reuben flushed a few shades. "Now, honeybunch, you know better than that -" 

The girl glanced towards her father, hesitating, but youthful persistence cannot be deterred by mere uncertainty. She just _had_ to know, and couldn't see any reason why she _shouldn't_ know. "Daddy says you're sick." 

The ambassador _really_ winced now. The issue of executive health was hardly a secret, but no one wanted to talk about it this openly - not _here,_ at any rate. 

By a firm exercise of will, Bartlet resisted the natural impulse to glance in that direction. His grin took on a more rueful cast. It would seem that he'd done a better job than he intended of putting this youngster at ease. 

Then he drew a deep breath. "Here, Angella. Have a seat." As gently as any parent would have done, he lifted the child onto one couch, then sat beside her. 

He kept his eyes on the puzzled face before him - a face also showing unease at the pervading, palpable tension she didn't understand - but without doubt his words were intended for the others as well. "I'm not sick right now. I _used_ to be sick. Haven't you ever been sick before?" 

Angella thought about it. "Uh-huh. But I'm all better now. Are _you_ better?" 

The rest of the room was dead silent. 

The President kept going, with steady nerve and frank honesty. "I'm better than I was. I hope I _keep_ getting better, and that I never get sick again." 

This time the child really smiled. It made her look positively cherubic. "Me, too." 

Everyone else smiled as well. 

"But how sick _were_ you?" 

Her father closed his eyes in ever-growing embarrassment. 

Bartlet raised a pacifying hand towards these witnesses. "It's okay to ask." He leaned closer to his guileless young interrogator, as though about to share a deep confidence. "Have you ever ridden on a merry-go-round?" 

The girl beamed. "Yeah! Daddy took me to the fair. It has _horses!_ " 

Who could fail to grin at that pure enthusiasm? "And it went round and round, right?" 

"Yeah! It was fast! And I went up and down, too!" 

The President nodded. "And when you got off, did you feel a little dizzy at first?" 

Angella searched her naturally selective memory. "Um... a little... But it went away." 

"Well, I know just how you felt. I got dizzy a couple of times, too. Then, it went away." 

Reuben's face started to clear... for more reasons than one. 

"Oh, that's okay, then!" The child happily dismissed any lingering concern - and, in a very real sense, not just for herself. 

Bartlet resurrected his beaming good nature. "Yes, it _is_ okay. Now, why don't you give the camera one more big smile?" He pointed towards Janet, who struggled to react to this blatant cue and slightly desperate diversion. 

The photographer must have been very glad to hide her own discomfort behind her equipment as she took aim at the President and his precocious guest, sitting comfortably side by side. "Say - Funny Bunny!" 

"Funny Bunny!" they obligingly chorused together. Angella at once dissolved into a fit of giggles. Her companion chuckled as well. Janet snapped the perfect moment. 

"All right. Well done." Bartlet helped the girl down, then rose himself. 

Slowly, he rotated towards his _other_ guest. His expression now was impossible to read. 

The ambassador had trouble finding his voice. He looked like he wished this plush embroidered carpet would open up and swallow him whole. Now. "Sir -" 

"Out of the mouths of babes, huh, Reuben?" Calmly, and considerately, his leader let him off the hook. "Just part of the facts of life. Don't worry about it." 

Angella looked positively indignant at this. "I'm not a baby!" 

* * *

Well, that was slightly embarrassing. Kids really do say the darnedest things. Besides, whatever this little darlin' picked up on by overhearing her parents is not likely the full details of what _they_ think. But even so, maybe I've cleared up a few issues for him as well. 

I just hope and pray that no one _else_ is looking at me that way right now. I don't need anyone jumping to conclusions the first moment I seem to be less than perfectly up to snuff. As if I don't have enough on my mind. 

Next item of business: proving to all and sundry that I _am_ up to snuff, and then some.

* * *

Ever since World War II, the threat of nuclear devastation has hung over the world exactly like the mushroom cloud that has become its very emblem. Children hear about it all their lives, almost to the point of being inured; adults wonder what kind of future there can possibly _be_ for their children; seniors wistfully remember a less uncertain life prior to this political and psychological oppression. More than a few people have expressed the wish that they would die of something else, anything else, without seeing that most horrific and final of cataclysms billow into reality. 

As an aside, the written - or spoken - word can contain (and has often contained in the past) no less savage power than any nuclear device ever conceived. 

"Toby?" Ginger stuck her head inside the Communications Director's office without being summoned, even though she ran no small risk of being decapitated as a result. 

"Just a sec," he said into his phone, then muffled the receiver with his free hand and raised a baleful eye towards his assistant. " _What_ is it?" 

She stood her ground, where many would have fled at once. "The President leaves in five minutes." 

"I know how to tell time." Toby surveyed his laptop screen once more, then hit two more keys. "Get this thing off the printer and bind it." 

Before Ginger had even vanished from sight, he'd switched mental gears and returned to his phone conversation. "Senator, I'm leaving. You have twenty seconds to explain why you _don't_ want to make this easier on the President - or am I under a mistaken impression that we're supposed to be on the same side here?" He tucked the receiver under his chin and gathered papers together two-handed, but dividing one's concentration is a must-learn skill for any White House operative. "All right, then. Just keep that in mind and this will be one less thing for him to worry about today. I'll get back to you. Thanks." Anyone who knew this man would seriously wonder how he found the wherewithal to be so polite. The affect was spoiled, though, by his swift and not very gentle hang-up. 

Bare seconds later, Toby blew out of his office like a small-scale cyclone, scattering papers and employees alike. "Ginger!" 

She was right there, a neat folder in hand. "As ordered." 

He virtually snatched it away in passing. "And as _I've_ been ordered, I'm out of here." 

Sam almost cannoned into him at the next corner. "There you are. Got the speech?" 

Wordlessly, Toby handed the freshly-bound file over as his deputy kept pace. 

"Good stuff. Nothing like the productivity of the last minute." Sam flipped through it, unable to resist checking for whatever changes his boss had made in the eleventh hour. 

"Huh - the last _second_ is even better." Said boss was venting steam like a kettle on the boil. "Mantel needs a major readjustment to his sense of self-importance." 

"You're just the man to provide the tune-up. Will he play ball?" 

Toby rolled his eyes. "For the moment only. Did you nail Hambleton?" 

"Yeah, she'll help stay the committee until next week," Sam confirmed. "That should give the President a bit of a breather." 

"Now if only he _uses_ it," the older man groused. 

"After this there are no more speeches until Thursday." 

"Five will get you ten that he'll find something to agonize over just the same." 

Sam mulled this over without losing ground. "Let's get this one out of the way first. That should cheer him up." 

"You think?" 

"First time for everything." 

The President was pacing when these two strode into the Oval Office together. "Nice timing. I had another ten whole seconds to spare before the worrying was scheduled to start." He saw the folder. "Hot off the presses, huh?" 

"Just a final bit of tweaking, sir," Toby said vaguely. 

" _Now_ who's being overprotective?" Sam muttered aside as he presented the dossier. 

Bartlet did not open it. Nor did he attempt to rejuvenate that old joke. "We'll review in the car. Let's go." 

The three of them headed for the North Portico, acquiring Charlie en route. Secret Service agents subtly increased their numbers as well. The President did not chat during this little parade as he usually did; clearly he had a lot on his mind, of which the upcoming speech was but one. 

The foyer held two more agents and three military officers, all at attention and waiting. 

Anyone watching Bartlet closely would have noticed how, for one instant, his vision locked onto the dark attaché case carried by one dress uniform - a case so incongruous in appearance that even those who knew about the infamous "football" might well not realize what they were seeing. Unless, that is, they spotted the telltale handcuff. 

It lasted only that instant; then the President resumed course, walking past the rest of his escort without a second glance. His very job rested upon his ability to put such unsettling things out of mind as much as possible. 

It was Sam whose features tightened visibly, Sam who could scarcely force himself to look away from this intimidating phalanx. Even Toby couldn't resist glancing over one shoulder after they passed by, as though he feared they were being followed by a smoking howitzer. Come to think of it, the comparison fit. 

Two sleek black limousines idled under the portico overhang, flanked fore and aft by a score of police and Service vehicles. Bartlet entered the first of those identical streamlined tanks; Toby and Sam crowded on his heels. Charlie, who spent so much time around The Man and all he stood for, actually hesitated before entering the sedan behind the second limo - because those silent officers had been assigned to it as well. That company would unnerve anyone. 

The rest of the security force spread out. Red lights commenced their revolutions, sirens revved up, and in unison the motorcade began to move. 

How fascinating to have in one place three very different yet very potent kinds of power: political, physical and oratorical.

* * *

There's that briefcase again. I'll never get used to the sight of it. Nobody can pretend that it doesn't contain the few bits of information needed to destroy the entire _planet._

I hate the supreme power it contains. I hate the callous danger it represents. I hate the way it follows me everywhere - just waiting for the day when I have to decide to wipe out this world in order to save it. _Me._

It used to be just us and the Soviet Union. Today there are nuclear powers all over the place, and for sure we don't even _know_ about some of them. God, we're closer to World War III now than ever. 

It might not be as easy to abuse such ultimate authority as some people seem to think, but it sure can go to your head. What I wouldn't give to get it _out_ of my head. And off my shoulders, while we're at it. The sheer responsibility... 

It doesn't help to remember that the poor sap chained to that thing is a target himself. That case is designed to be impregnable without my fingerprints _and_ confirmation from the White House. Still, despite all our precautions and safeguards, someone somewhere just might find a way to get into it, and whether or not they believe they can't is no guarantee that they won't try. What a terrifying concept. Imagine some fanatic holding the entire human race for ransom. 

_This_ is the world I'm supposed to lead? 

Then again, maybe I should be glad that the world's biggest arsenal answers to someone who's so very reluctant to use it. 

All right; better get my mind back on current affairs. I've got almost as much ammunition in this folder as the trigger codes themselves. Walk softly and carry a big speech.

* * *

Monday - evening. 

Technological advancement is a perfect analogy for just how extreme the pros and cons to a situation can be. Weapons enabled humanity to hunt and to survive, but also to wage war. The wheel revolutionized mobility and expansion, yet more people have died from car crashes than in all of history's wars to date. Computers make so many tedious jobs so much simpler that most of us can't possibly live without computer control anymore. Long-distance communications changed the face of the world, and at the same time gave birth to an astounding impatience for the slightest delay in receiving the answer demanded. Believe it or not, a written message used to take days, even weeks just to reach its destination, much less generate a response. 

"Donna!" The yell echoed down corridors and effected a mass shaking of heads. 

"Vice-Chair Zanin is on the line," she shouted back in the general direction of her boss's office. 

"About time." Josh picked up the phone. 

Relative quiet returned. If one factored in the eternal humming of computers, soughing of printers, ringing of phones and murmuring of voices, it was almost peaceful. 

_"Donna!"_

She didn't have to leave her desk this time, either. "The statistics file is on your desk." 

"Thanks." Josh rustled papers until he uncovered the folder in mind. 

The number of support staff present had dwindled from full daytime strength, but enough were still present to maintain efficiency and get a jump on the next day's caseload. 

_"DONNA!"_

And still she stayed in place, but she did permit herself an exasperated sigh. "Dinner will be here _shortly._ " 

"Okay, you gotta stop that." 

Now she turned, to find her boss standing in the doorway, watching her. 

"Stop what?" 

"Reading my mind. You scare me." 

Donna frowned a bit. "You _need_ me to read your mind. Otherwise I can't keep up with you." 

"Well, I don't _like_ it when you keep up with me like that." 

"It's part of my job description." 

Josh shrugged. "I don't care." 

"I _like_ scaring you." 

"I don't." 

"My point precisely." Smiling, she pivoted back to her own work. 

He gave up that track, knowing when he was beaten and changing the subject before he had to _admit_ that he was beaten. "Look, just get the Secretary of Labor on the line. I've been trying all evening. Maybe you'll have better luck." 

"It's not a matter of _luck,_ Josh," Donna informed him, her tone dripping with both frustration and smugness. 

"Whatever. I'm not going home until I talk to him, which means you don't go home until _you_ talk to him. Use GPS if you have to; haul him out of bed. Whatever it takes. He doesn't get the satisfaction of dealing with the President on this. He has to deal with me." 

She rolled her eyes. "No wonder he's playing hard to get." 

The Deputy Chief of Staff ignored that comment as well, with the ease of long practice in ignoring all insults aimed his way. He checked his watch, then compared it to a convenient wall clock. "Okay, the President's back from his speech, so I'm in the Oval Office. When you do get that guy on the line, don't let him escape." 

"You want me to hold the fishing rod for you, but not to reel it in?" Donna folded her arms and propped them on her desk, the picture of long suffering. "I get all the glamorous jobs." 

"Just make sure you keep him on the hook 'til I get back. I'm running out of bait here." He quick-stepped away before she could score another point at his expense. 

"Josh!" C.J. converged from another corridor and matched his pace. "Anything from Labor yet?" 

"Donna's on it." 

The Press Secretary gave an unladylike but articulate snort. "Took you long enough. Now maybe we'll get someplace, because _I_ can't call Duthie until _you_ talk to Wendermann." 

"She's on it!" Josh repeated defensively. He waited for a few strides, then blurted out his next concern. "How much trouble do you think we're in?" 

"When are we _not_ in trouble?" C.J. countered. 

"The two or three minutes it usually takes us to walk to our cars, _maybe._ " 

"You've got that right." She took a longer breath. "As for how much trouble with the President - not much. Yet. But he's going to clue in sooner or later." 

Josh grimaced. "Something to look forward to." 

Leo, Toby and Sam were already there, but the staff meeting had yet to be called to order. The President was conducting his own struggle with the aid of telephonics tonight. 

"Cal, I don't have time for this. _You_ shouldn't have time for it, either. Every additional week we hold off is only going to burn us in the end." 

He exhaled wearily as the other side began to protest. The gathered quintet at least tried not to act like they were eavesdropping. 

"All right, time out! I'll call you back in an hour, and I want you to give me as straight an answer as your native shrewdness will possibly permit. I'm through contributing to the dust on this issue." Bartlet hung up without further words, a loud sound in the stillness of this high office even with five other people present. 

"And another one _bites_ the dust," Josh murmured, frank approval in his tone. 

Their boss rubbed at the lines of fatigue on his face. "I do hope that crack wasn't intended for _me._ Here's where I'd normally say something about how I bit the _bullet,_ but we've already dealt with these loaded expressions once today." 

Four smiles peeked out. No one cared overmuch about the details of the referenced event; this was the best display of executive humor around them all week. Not even exhaustion could subdue this man's wit for long. 

"Sir -" Leo began. 

"Hang on another minute." Bartlet sifted through half a dozen pages stacked on the desk's far corner, angling his head for the optimum vantagepoint. "Right." He reached over and hit a button on his phone. "Ruth, could you get hold of Councilman Foy, please? I need to talk to him in about ten minutes." 

_"Yes, Mr. President,"_ the built-in speaker promptly replied. 

"Thanks." He hit another switch to disconnect, then looked up. "That's your time limit, people. Now, what have you got?" 

His people were still grouped in front of his desk... every single one slack-jawed and struck speechless. 

Bartlet started to frown, eyes darting back and forth. "What?" 

Sam recovered his voice first. "You... used your intercom." 

The President looked at the elaborate phone on his desk. "Well, I sure hope nobody _else_ around here sounds enough like me to get away with using it." 

"You _never_ used the intercom before," C.J. clarified, her amazement vivid. 

"Oh, that." Bartlet leaned back in his chair, effecting nonchalance at what was for him a major technological breakthrough. He couldn't completely hide a grin, though. "You know, there's a reason why Secret Service code names are always either two or three syllables." He calmly ignored the stares of both confusion and resignation on all sides at what sounded like the lead-in to another one of those infamous presidential lectures. "Any longer and they get cumbersome. Any shorter, and they're not very distinct over the radio, or the phone, or the intercom. Besides," he added a bit more self-consciously, "Ruth said it sounded like I was barking at her." 

Josh and Sam chuckled together; no doubt both were doing an imitation in their heads right now. 

Toby shifted, no less off-balance than his colleagues but more efficient in masking it. "Well... congratulations, sir." 

"Sounds like congratulations are in order for Ruth as well," Leo added with the faintest current of humor under his breath. Not even Mrs. Landingham had managed to overcome one of their Commander-in-Chief's most persistent and idiosyncratic quirks. He always preferred to simply bellow for her. 

"And now that I've totally confounded your image of me," the President said with some satisfaction, "let's have at it." 

Toby volunteered to go first. "I've got Edward Mantel treading water. Sooner or later he'll yell for a life-ring." 

"Right where we want him." Bartlet found his own notes on that subject and penned an addition. "As soon as he _does_ yell, make sure we're there. His pride will be bruised enough just coming to us for help; no need to salt the wounds. Next?" 

"The Drive Clean Committee is still haggling. Hambleton thinks it should be only a few more days, though." Nothing about Sam's tone or posture indicated that he himself was responsible for this delay. 

The President flipped pages. "Could they possibly work any slower on this? When you think about how many extra tons of pollutants will be pumped into our lungs during the time it takes someone to argue over the wording of one sentence..." 

"Agreed, sir." Sam struggled not to look guilty. 

Josh spoke up next. "Zanin is on board now with the medical biohazard initiative. And I'm getting hold of Wendermann even as we speak." 

"You mean _Donna's_ getting hold of him," C.J. muttered softly. Then she straightened and continued in a normal volume, "The moment Josh makes contact, I'm going after Duthie." She was the only one of the four not presenting a _fait accompli,_ and looked somewhat uncomfortable as a result. 

"Good. A two-pronged attack." Then Bartlet grunted. "Hey, maybe hanging around all these military advisors is finally rubbing off on me." He paused to look up with a touch of concern. "I'm not so sure that's a good thing." 

Leo pretended to look even more concerned at this. 

"We'll take our chances, sir," Sam said with a grin. "By the way, early feedback from the Industry speech is very strong." 

"Well... that's one less foul-up I made today." The President returned to his notes. 

"Yes, things are ticking along pretty smoothly, for a Monday night." Leo did his best not to paint this in overly cheerful colors, for fear that it appear artificial - or even contrived. Which in fact it was. 

"I'm sure it won't last, but you guys are really firing on all thrusters. I'd better pick up my feet to stay with you." 

Five faces fell with an almost audible thud. He was _serious._ To think that their efforts to lighten his load as much as possible had only driven him to work _harder_ instead -! The level of executive strain could already be seen by all without any additional pressure, either from others or from The Man himself. 

Even as they scrambled for objections, their boss picked up an impressively thick stack of new files that had been banished to one side, and set it in front of himself with a very audible thud. 

Leo summoned his nerve and stepped forward, daring to plant his hand on top of this pile before it could be opened. 

Slowly, Bartlet raised his eyes to that deliberate opposition. His brows drew down. 

"Sir. It'll keep until tomorrow. It's late. Get some sleep." 

The President did not physically react. The ultimatum, however, was there in his voice. "Don't baby me, Leo. If I want to work the night through, I'm damned well going to do it." 

This next silence seemed to be filled with the clash of sword-blades as two forceful wills squared off: two wills that knew each other very well, and knew just how far they could go, standing their ground and equally adept at making their point without words. 

Finally, the Chief of Staff admitted his place and backed off. He really had no choice. 

The rest of the Senior Staff looked terribly deflated. Their previous sense of accomplishment had vanished. _Now_ what were they to do? The sheer volume of work that constantly flooded the White House would bury Paul Bunyan; five people couldn't hope to do _all_ of it in an attempt to keep it off their leader's plate. 

All they could do... was stand there.

* * *

Boy, these people of mine are _good._ Not that I haven't already know that for years, but it's truly amazing what we get done at times. 

Why can't we have more days like this? Sometimes I feel like I've accomplished absolutely nothing all week except to spin my wheels and tax my temper. 

On the other hand, if I didn't always have something to do, I'd go stir-crazy. Plus, I'd question my usefulness around here. 

Well, let's not waste the time, the energy or the initiative. The clock is ticking. 


	4. Harbinger 4

**Harbinger**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** The President's health is breaking down at last - but what exactly is the cause?  
**Written:** Feb, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2002, between “Stirred” and “Enemies Foreign and Domestic 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 4 ~ 

Tuesday - morning. 

It's a perfectly natural impulse for humans to wonder what others think \- _really_ think - of them, and what is said out of their hearing. However, that degree of honesty when the subject is not present can be less kind than expected, and many who have accidentally overheard such discussions about themselves often wish that they could forget the words entirely. Ignorance truly is bliss in some things. 

Then there's the added factor of public notoriety; some identities become household names and even icons. Imagine all that may well be said about them at any given moment. If you're famous, you have to resign yourself to the fact that somewhere out there _someone_ is talking about you... and perhaps not in the most positive terms. 

Sam blazed a path through the usual traffic jam of the West Wing corridors, head constantly swiveling as he scanned passing faces. Almost all of them ignored him. Almost all of them had their hands full, too, whereas he did not. Clearly, whatever he had in mind at this moment, it did not require notes. 

"Hey - C.J.!" He'd finally spotted his objective. Her height had helped, but was no guarantee in such congestion. 

The Press Secretary continued towards her office, knowing full well that he would follow her there. "Sam, it's not yet eight. I still have a full seven minutes before you're allowed to throw a monkey wrench into my day." 

"I'm an overachiever." It would take more than this to dissuade the Deputy Communications Director from his purpose today. It always had in the past, too. "Give me one of those minutes? Please?" 

"One." C.J. plunked her armful of files on her desk and started to sort them, not even bothering to face him. "Go." 

"Have you seen the President yet this morning?" 

Suddenly he had her full attention. She paused, then set down the reports and rotated. "No..." That single word was well drawn out, veritably tingling with suspicion - and more than a pinch of fear. "Why?" 

"I have." 

"So I had gathered. But then, I had fifty-fifty odds of gathering correctly." 

Sam didn't even pause for breath to make his point. "He still doesn't look that great." 

C.J. folded her arms, her features sliding into their "grim" setting. "Somehow I _knew_ you weren't going to tell me that he'd staged a miraculous recovery to his pre-election-year bloom of health. Let me guess: he followed through on his threat and pulled an all-nighter?" 

"I don't think it's just that." This time Sam did take a breath, deliberately inserting a pause for impact. It was a technique he used in writing, and used well. "I think he's in pain." 

C.J. blinked. Whatever observations she might have expected from this build-up, whatever new or old problems might be plaguing their Chief Executive today, _pain_ had not been on the short list. Then she shifted into a more comfortable position against her desk, preparing for a longer conversation than she'd first planned. 

"All right, Sam, you have _more_ than one minute. Why pain?" 

"Think about it: a nagging ache would keep him up at night. So he figures that if he can't sleep, he might as well work. Which means he's sitting in a chair even longer, which only exacerbates his condition." 

"You think it's his back again?" 

"That's my first guess." 

C.J. weighed her next words carefully. "When you saw him, was he fully lucid?" 

Sam started at her bluntness. Lack of clear thought processes is a terrifying concept for a friend, never mind a world leader. Then understanding and recollection came to the rescue. "Absolutely wide awake. And not admitting to a thing, either." 

"Why does _that_ not surprise me?" she muttered. For a moment the resignation in her voice waged open warfare with the fondness in her eyes. All of the senior staff considered it an honor and a pleasure to know their President personally. 

However, with the gift of closeness comes the price of concern. C.J. pursued her original thought. "At least it sounds like he hasn't overdone it with the painkillers." They had both been present on the one known occasion when he _did_ overdo it. 

"One less thing to worry about." Then Sam did a double take. "Wait - you think he's not taking them at all?" 

C.J. sighed. "That wouldn't surprise me, either. He's never liked taking pills on the best of days, especially when it might slow him down." 

"Dedication." The way Sam said that indicated that he had no doubt in the least as to its veracity. 

"And pride." She had no doubt about either factor. "You can bet he'd do his level best to hide the slightest signs of weakness... even from us." 

Sam thought about that, and his eyes dropped. "Yeah." Then he straightened. "Say, how did he hurt his back in the first place?" 

C.J. turned to her desk and the business piled high upon it. "I never heard. And I'm _not_ asking him." Her action _and_ her words ended their conversation. 

"Well, if you don't dare, I sure won't." On that note, Sam headed for the door. 

"Oh, and thanks for the monkey wrench," she added in a sour tone. 

"Anytime!" he returned cheerfully as he passed from sight. 

C.J. stared after him for a moment, and her face did not lose its frown. 

Sam plunged back into the surf of employees hurrying from place to place, letting its tide carry him while he sought out someone else to bother. It didn't take as long this time. 

"Josh!" 

"Sam! Get over here!" 

The Deputy Chief of Staff towered above the whole bullpen area, something he liked to imagine was _always_ the case. This morning he had a _physical_ reason: the stepping stool on which he was precariously balanced, while searching a high bookshelf for something with no apparent success. 

Sam surveyed this tenuous process. "Now I can really look up to you, Josh." 

"About time. Make yourself useful." His friend latched onto the object of his hunt and literally shoved a heavy volume off the shelf. It tumbled floor-ward; Sam almost didn't react fast enough to catch it. 

"My pleasure." Grunting a bit at this unexpected exertion, he slammed the tome down on Donna's unoccupied desk - which explained why Josh had been forced to do his own research in the first place. "Got a second?" 

"For someone who's so particular about what words he puts on paper, you have _no_ idea how to use them in conversation." Josh jumped down, dusting off his palms. "I think I'd better schedule a half-hour, just to play it safe." 

"That's very generous of you. I know how eager you are to dive into tariff regulations." Sam moved away from that phone-book-sized binder as though afraid it might bite him. "I was just talking to C.J. We're wondering if the President's gone off his back pills." 

Josh paused in mid-wipe, then finished the process more slowly. His face adopted a pensive attitude. "That could explain what's been bugging him lately." 

"You're our resident expert." Sam spoke with gentle consideration; Rosslyn was one topic never casually broached around here. "Why do you think he'd deliberately put himself through that - not take the meds that help so much?" 

All traces of levity had fled from Josh's posture. He tended to relive that night more vividly than anyone else... save for Jed Bartlet himself. Fortunately, this corner of the office was otherwise vacant. "Well, I can tell you that after you've been plied with every concoction in the local pharmacy, you reach the point where you're just fed up with pampering yourself. You get sick of swallowing pills left and right, and watching time intervals between doses. They don't seem to be helping much anyway, so why take them?" 

"Uh-oh," Sam muttered. "Let me guess what comes next. When the pain get really bad, then you throw caution to the winds and end up overdoing it. Right?" 

For once Josh didn't call upon his almost limitless supply of bravado to whitewash a less-than-sterling moment in his past. "And you don't like to admit that you need all this care - not even to yourself. You want to prove that you're not weak." 

"Yep, I can see that." Sam meant both the man standing in front of him and the man they were obliquely discussing. Then a new angle hit him. "Still, there has to be one or two prescriptions that the President is on permanently." 

"And you can bet your bottom dollar he isn't skipping _those,_ no matter how busy he is... or how stubborn." Josh didn't name the reason; every worker in the White House avoided a certain two-letter abbreviation as much as possible. There is a primitive, pagan fear that to even speak of a thing is to give it life and power. 

Sam's face drew down. "Point. But hey - what if some of these other pills are interacting?" Then this frightening idea gave birth to another ominous possibility. "Or could he be one of that 'May adversely affect ten per cent of users' group? You see those warnings all the time on labels of even over-the-counter medication." 

Josh scrubbed a hand through his hair, as though the motion could sweep this new anxiety right out of his brain. "Nah. Even if that were the case, I'm sure the First Lady is on it." 

"Except that she's not due back from Louisiana until tomorrow." 

Both young men paused to consider this potential wrinkle. 

Sam shifted uneasily. "How much do you think can happen in one day?" 

Josh's eyebrows rose in sardonic disbelief. "Around _here?_ " 

"Right. Forget I asked." Looking quite dismayed, Sam took his leave. 

Ever in search of answers, he hadn't wandered much farther through this office jungle before he spotted his next victim. 

"Toby!" 

The Director of Communications had just exited his own office down the hall. "Whatever it is, Sam, I can't stop to talk about it." 

"Okay, I'll tag along." Sam suited actions to words. 

"You don't have the first clue where I'm going." Toby shifted the thick stack of folders under one arm and accelerated his pace, as though trying to leave behind any attempt at social amenities. 

"I'll find out eventually." His deputy's efforts to keep this light evaporated. He lowered his voice. "I think I know what's wrong with the President." 

Toby stopped so abruptly that Sam completed several more steps before he could compensate. Other employees almost ran into both of them from behind, not expecting _quite_ so sudden a halt in mid-hall. 

Toby was famous for his self-control, especially in the realm of facial expression. Nothing about his deportment shifted. He just stood there for all of four seconds as though turned to marble, processing this bulletin in silence. Then, without a word, he spun on one heel and headed back for his office. Sam didn't need an invitation to follow. 

Once they were both inside and the door closed, the older man set down his papers, stuffed hands in pockets, and released a long exhalation. "Go on." 

"It's more than weariness, and it's not really mood changes. I think his back is acting up, and he's deliberately neglecting it." 

Wheels turned almost visibly behind that dark beard and darker vision. "Possible. He's never been a moody individual, unlike some of us." Toby didn't pause, although the last phrase had to be aimed at himself most of all. "Plus, he's always in major denial about his health." 

"Tell me something I don't know." Sam tried to hide behind the cynicism that was expected around here, but his frustration and genuine worry shone through nonetheless. 

" _Now_ in particular," Toby emphasized. "The moment anything seems the least bit wrong with him, he's convinced we're all staring at him sideways." 

"He's not immortal," Sam pointed out, for the second time in twenty-four hours. "He's allowed to get hurt." 

"Leaving aside the Secret Service's predictable response to _that_ comment, it's not so simple." Toby gazed out the window. "There can be an almost instinctive prejudice, even among the most educated of people, when they're forced to confront someone with a disease - or a perceived flaw. The President is not the kind of man to suffer that attitude gladly. He's got one medical enemy he can't fight... so he looks for another that he _can_ fight." 

A growing understanding illuminated Sam's face. "By pushing himself, and keeping the cure-alls to a minimum. He wants to prove that he can take it." 

This time Toby's own mood contained more than a hint of depression. "Prove it to us... to the people..." 

"To himself." 

"Bet your life." 

The two men shared a few moments of quiet, each pursuing his own dark thoughts. 

"What are we going to do?" Sam wondered aloud... not really expecting an answer. 

Toby grunted. "Beats me. And I've tried before. Might as well stand in front of a train." Then he reached for his files. "I have to go." The work of politics never ended. 

Sam did not follow him this time, content to remain and ponder some more.

* * *

Being committed to the service of another is a special calling. For some it comes naturally; they don't thirst after personal glory, and are proud to contribute in any way. For others, such as those who "look out for number one," it borders on demeaning, and fuels their desire to reach the pyramid's very top. Providing such service does not enforce inequality, though; it is a prerequisite of administration. The higher-ranking the job, the more behind-the-scenes help the incumbent needs in order to function. Besides, many forget that holding high office is also a great offering of self, no less an act of service in its own right. 

If even the lowliest tasks are faced with dedication, service is appreciated. When service is valued, trust is built. Where trust exists, friendships can form. And when friendships grow, service takes on a whole new dimension. 

"CHARLIE!" This summons carried easily through the closed white door. The President's personal aide at once left his desk and entered the Oval Office. 

"Sir?" 

Bartlet was seated in his leather chair, checking and re-checking all shirt and jacket pockets. "You've stolen my glasses again, Bubba." 

"Not guilty, Mr. President." They'd been down this road before. 

"Don't give me that! I left them right here and they're gone. It couldn't have been anyone else." He started shifting papers and lifting folders, which only increased the confusion across his desk surface. "No one else would _dare._ " 

Charlie smiled as he came over to help in the search. "I don't steal from you, sir." For some reason he didn't really sound like he was protesting his innocence. The next sentence confirmed that. "It's too easy." 

This time his boss about-faced. " _Easy?_ While half of the Secret Service's entire force is standing right outside this room? Come to think of it, your choice of words there tells me that you've tried before - and _succeeded._ " Anyone who didn't know this particular Chief Executive would be unaware of his subtle humor, and quaking in their boots as a result. "Charlie, I suspect we'll have to start going through your desk. Who knows what _else_ I may find there that I've been missing?" 

"Well, you won't find _these_ in my desk, that's for sure." The young aide raised a pair of spectacles from the side table beside The Man's favorite armchair, half-hidden by a stack of binders. "'Cause here they are." 

"Ah-HA! I knew you had them all along!" Bartlet obtained the wire frames and inspected them for damage. "It's kind of uncanny, how you always know where to look. Matter of fact, this has been the pattern ever since your first day here. I'm beginning to wonder if you deliberately hide them on me." 

Charlie savored this return of executive humor. "You found me out, Mr. President. I gotta make sure you can't live without me. Is there anything else?" 

"Bring me a shovel?" His boss set the glasses in place, then wearily surveyed the anarchy of paper before him. "All of this didn't look _quite_ so bad when it was out of focus." 

Charlie's grin faded at this reference to the sheer volume of work ever pending, and the exhaustion it caused. "Maybe a shredder instead?" he suggested, trying to ease the suddenly dropping mood. 

"Or better yet, a lighter. Maybe it's not such a bad thing that I haven't _completely_ given up smoking yet." Bartlet let out a long breath and reached for the nearest dossier. 

Charlie did not choose to comment on that old habit. "By the way, sir, congrats on the use of your intercom." 

His answer was a snort. "Everyone can let go of that any time now." 

"Funny how _I_ still get shouted at." 

Only someone who had grown _very_ comfortable with the leader of the free world would have dared such an observation. 

"Damned straight." The President didn't raise his head, sounding perfectly serious. "Have you also noticed how fast it gets you in here? Much more efficient than any electronic summons will _ever_ be." 

His body man really smiled now, amused and comforted together. "I find that thought very reassuring, sir. Call me if you need me." 

"Don't worry, I will." 

Charlie stepped out, closing the door behind him. 

"Charlie." Leo stood waiting, expression carefully guarded. 

Almost always, the Chief of Staff entered through his own private portal to the Oval Office. Charlie showed some surprise, but it was not his place to ask questions. "Hi. He's alone if you want to go in -" 

"Actually, it's you I'm after." 

The young man glanced sideways, but Ruth was not at her own desk just now. They could stand here in private, for the moment. "Yeah?" 

Leo hesitated, seeming actually off-balance. That lapse in character warned of the grimness to come. "He's still at it, huh?" 

This was no time for the usual professional reticence. "Yeah. I can't even get him to take a break." 

"Welcome to the club." Leo sighed, his anxieties confirmed. "Listen, I'm not _trying_ to get you into trouble. But I need your help. I don't intend to let this situation deteriorate any further. He's pushing the envelope, and I'm not sure just how far it _can_ be pushed." 

"What do you think we can do about it?" Charlie asked quietly. His use of "we" stated his agreement with that observation, and his willingness to pitch in. 

Leo acknowledged this offer of assistance with a short nod. "If I knew that, I could save the world. Maybe if we just keep telling him, it'll sink in eventually. But I won't hold my breath. For now, we'll step up surveillance. If anything unusual happens, or if he does or says anything that feels out of place, I want you to tell me. And be subtle about it." 

He glanced warily at that door, unable to hide his nervousness. When you work for a dear friend, sometimes the job and the friendship just do not mesh. And when two loyalties collide, one of them must yield. 

Charlie's new expression broadcast his thoughts loud and clear: reluctance, regret, almost disgust... and bleak realization that it must be done. He forced himself to actually say the words. "You want me to spy on the President." 

Leo winced. Put that way, it sounded blatantly treasonous. "We're not plotting behind his back, for God's sake. He's got something bothering him, and he won't ask for our help. Well, he's going to get our help anyway." 

Put _this_ way, it sounded like the truest manifestation of loyalty. "Okay." 

"Thanks." The Chief of Staff looked even older than his years, weighed down by his own misgivings on such a questionable course of action. "I hate to ask this of you, Charlie. But what else can I do? The man's got a stubborn streak a mile wide. You know he hates to lose an argument - especially when it's about himself. I need hard evidence if I'm to have any chance of winning _this_ one. Hopefully we'll ferret out the cause soon, before -" 

The door to the office beside them suddenly swung open. "Charlie -" 

Both men spun around. The President of the United States stood on the threshold, staring right at them. 

For two endless heartbeats, no one moved. He could read the sudden guilt on their faces. They could read the sudden suspicion on his. 

He knew at once that they'd been talking about him. Of itself, that was nothing either new or odd. However, those distinctly guilty looks told him that this interrupted discussion had not been about regular business matters, but about very personal issues of which they would have preferred that Jed Bartlet never knew. 

Charlie tried to recover. "Yes, sir?" 

His boss hesitated, then made at least an effort to shake off that suspicion. "It can wait. Come on in when you're done here." 

Somehow, Leo managed to meet those calculating blue eyes and not hang his head. He made no excuses for his choice of action, even if his job required that he go directly against the wishes of his leader and his friend. Or, conversely, if he had to go against his job to serve his leader and friend even better. 

"Yes, sir." Fortunately, the personal aide's skin color did not show a blush of embarrassment. Normally, nothing and no one kept the President waiting. 

Without another word, Bartlet returned to his office and closed the door.

* * *

I know exactly what all that was about. Leo's determined to infect Charlie with his overprotective complex, and who knows how many others around here as well. 

What's the matter with everyone? Do they think they have to flutter about me all the time? It's bad enough being waited on hand and foot by the White House domestic staff. Do I look that delicate? 

I'm a big boy, thanks. I can take care of myself. 

* * *

In developed nations, few things indeed are more sought after than news. No matter how depressing it might be, everyone stops to greedily consume it. You can't wage a war or build a fortune without knowing what goes on in the greater community around you, for it is the conditions and standards of that greater community which will determine whether you are at war or at peace, wealthy or destitute. Without news each gathering of homes would be totally isolated, ignorant of what was happening beyond the horizon. Coordination of events, business and decisions between villages more than a day's journey away would be all but impossible. World leaders, movie stars and sports icons would not exist. Only speculation and gossip would endure. 

One could argue over how much more reliable the current news media was compared to such speculation and gossip in the first place... 

"C.J.!" 

"C.J.!" 

_"C.J.!"_

The Press Secretary presided over her usual mid-morning dose of Press Corps chaos. "Calm down. You're my captive audience, and I'm yours. None of us are going anywhere for the next little while." Did she seem just a little frustrated or uneasy, compared to her usual self-confidence? "Franklin." 

"C.J., I hear the Drive Clean Committee is still sequestered. Do you have any idea why they're taking so long over something so fundamentally important to the environment?" 

"No, I don't." She never batted an eye. "I do know that everyone on the Committee is determined to make it a viable and very effective piece of legislation. My guess is, they don't want to rush things and end up with the same kind of loopholes that have taken the teeth out of similar clean-air bills both in this administration and in previous ones as well. Trudy." 

"C.J., can you confirm that Peter Zanin is about to throw his hat into the ring on the medical biohazard issue?" 

"You seem to be somewhat out of the loop; it's already been confirmed by the man himself. And it's high time, since Mr. Zanin is the Vice-Chair of the AMA. Formal standardization of even the smallest sources of medical waste has been in limbo far too long. Children are still finding discarded syringes in trash cans near playgrounds. I hope that frightens you as much as it does me. Phil." 

"C.J., is there any truth to the rumor that the President's health is deteriorating?" 

Dead silence crashed down upon this room like a fair-sized mountain. The Press Secretary solidified behind her podium; all of the monitors caught how her expression went still and stiff. Everyone held their breath - 

"Well, this must be a slow news day, if you guys can't do any better than create your own headlines by dusting off an old story." C.J. recovered her balance with admirable skill. "And of course presidential stories are never out of vogue." 

"C.J. -" 

"Relax; I'm not dodging the issue. We all know that any problems to the President's health can't be hidden for long anyway." That fact was scarier than she let on. 

"Yeah, but -" 

She squared up, unleashing her personality to enforce her message. "Just in case some of you missed the bulletin, this is an election year. The amount of work that a federal election generates on its own would amaze you, and since the President is running again he has to deal with all of it. But just because the election is still more than six months away doesn't mean that the work hasn't started, and just because it _is_ an election year doesn't mean that the regular tasks of running this nation have stopped cold, or been set aside. For all intents and purposes, the President's caseload has doubled." 

C.J. sighed and brushed a hand across her forehead. "I won't deny that he's tired these days. So are the rest of us. We're all looking forward to a bit of a slowdown this summer." Then her dry sarcasm rose to the fore. "I do hope that doesn't disappoint any of you too much." 

The discussion on that particular subject ended here. Not even this infamous shark tank liked to challenge C.J. Cregg when she got that chilly light in her eye and that note of finality in her voice. 

Besides, if she _was_ hiding something, everyone knew that it would come out eventually. The White House leaked like a sieve. 


	5. Harbinger 5

**Harbinger**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** The President's health is breaking down at last - but what exactly is the cause?  
**Written:** Feb, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2002, between “Stirred” and “Enemies Foreign and Domestic 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 5 ~ 

Tuesday - early afternoon. 

Pretty much everything in this life is prioritized. Some tasks are more critical or time-sensitive; for instance, emergency vehicles take precedence over regular traffic. Some patients' health is in greater need of medical treatment than their more fortunate fellows, hence the waiting lists at hospitals. Some people's positions allow them to interrupt lesser folk when there is sufficient need. 

Priority does not easily accommodate the doctrine that all people are created equal. 

"Here you are, Mr. President." The ranking military officer, in full dress uniform, crossed the carpet Seal and presented his report. 

Bartlet reached across his desk to accept it, albeit somewhat reluctantly. "I've already approved one arms subsidy this week. Do you mean to tell me you guys still aren't ready to take over the world?" 

The officer resisted a smile. No matter how much his Commander-in-Chief might throw jokes around, protocol had to be preserved. "This is the final report, sir. Barring any revisions you may have, of course." 

"Like I'd know what I was revising in the first place," Bartlet muttered, opening the folder and reaching for his glasses. 

At the far end of one couch, Sergeant Yantze was taking minutes again, and keeping his head down - literally. 

"Excuse me, Mr. President." Leo seemed to materialize inside this oval chamber like a genie. His entrance was so quiet that he might have passed straight through the wall rather than the open door from his own office. 

Bartlet turned his way. "Ah. Here's the man you really should be talking to, Captain. At least _he_ can hold an intelligent conversation on defense issues. Now if only you guys would come to me with an _economic_ problem once in a while..." 

Everyone else resisted the urge to grin. For the visitors, it was still an issue of protocol. For Leo, it was a matter of gravity. The officer stepped back, acknowledging that an interruption from the Chief of Staff outranked the presentation of a mere formality. Leo nodded to him in turn as he claimed precedence. 

"A memo from Chief Justice Marshall, sir." He extended a deceptively simple looking piece of paper. 

Of course, _anything_ can be written upon such a versatile medium. A birthday greeting, a crash in the stock market, a declaration of war... or peace... 

From the President's quick head-raise and narrowed eyes, he didn't need to read the note to know what topic it addressed. "Oh, hell. He hasn't resolved that extradition case yet?" His shoulders heaved in a sigh of bone-deep weariness and soul-deep resignation. "If they're not passing the buck, and the blame, then they're lining up for an autograph. I am such a rubber stamp around here, it isn't funny." Settling his spectacles into place, he took the paper and peered at it. 

Towards the rear, Yantze put down his pen. It might be several minutes before his task kicked in again. Certainly he was forbidden to record anything that didn't directly involve _his_ meeting. He was also discouraged from attracting any attention to himself. 

Still, how could anyone resist the opportunity to watch the leader of the free world, forbidden or no? So the young man sat quietly, and watched. 

Bartlet held the memo in both hands. But he wasn't reading it. Or, to be more precise, he was _trying_ to read it - with a painfully obvious lack of success. He frowned, blinked, squinted, adjusted his glasses, moved the page closer, then moved it further away. He even gave his head a shake, as though rattling uncooperative corneas back into alignment. At last, he removed his spectacles and examined them critically. 

By now this little performance had riveted all three witnesses. Their expressions differed considerably, however. Yantze wore a look of frank wonder, though his captain did manage to maintain the appropriate professional inscrutability. 

Leo's undeniable concern grew with every second that ticked past. 

"Sir?" 

That one word must have reminded the President that there _were_ witnesses to whatever problem he currently faced. In an instant personal discomfort had vanished behind a disarming smile aimed at the whole room. 

"I totally forgot: I brought the wrong glasses down with me." He dropped the wire frames onto his desktop. "Must've left the others upstairs in the Residence. Here, Leo; you read it to me." With every evidence of calm, and light amusement at his own mistake, he handed the memo back to his right-hand man. 

Leo didn't accept it. His voice was low yet inexorable, and his gaze never wavered. "You only have one kind of glasses." 

"What are you talking about?" Suddenly Bartlet sounded downright insulted. "Of _course_ I've got more than one pair. What would happen if I broke a set? Optometrists aren't open twenty-four/seven, you know. Are you saying you don't take the same logical precaution? Leo, I'm surprised at you." 

Leo refused to be distracted. "They're still the same prescription." His words retained that no-nonsense edge. He did keep it subdued, in recognition of the fact that these two old friends weren't alone. "Is your vision giving you trouble?" 

"No, it's _not._ " The President issued his denial so promptly, and so sharply, that both soldiers couldn't help but overhear. "It's just a headache, that's all. Comes and goes." He gave up on his lame attempt at an excuse, plonked his glasses back on and scowled at the innocent memo. "There, see? Perfect focus again." 

"That's the first _I've_ heard about these headaches. How long have they been coming?" 

"Not long." Bartlet's irritation could not be mistaken now. "Let it go." 

Leo had no such intention. "You know me: I'm incapable of letting go of anything." There was little humor in his tone despite the choice of phrase. 

"Then it's time you learned." The President leaned back in his leather chair and returned to reading, in effect declaring this entire topic at an end. 

"I think it's time we got you checked over -" 

_"No."_ Bartlet speared him with one furious glare, a glare that said in no uncertain terms, _Pursue this at your peril._

Both military guests remained silent and still, although the younger one kept staring, following every word and motion. 

Some people are nearly impossible to intimidate. In fact, that's an excellent trait for _any_ White House Chief of Staff to possess, since it's usually his job to give his President the really unwelcome news of the day. "Something's bothering you, and we need to know what -" 

This time their leader rose to his full height, and thunder rode upon his brow. "What part of 'no' don't you understand, Leo? I'm _fine._ And I'm not going to jump through medical hoops every single time I get a headache, or sneeze, or bash my thumb. And you can tell that to your covert watchdogs while you're at it." 

Leo actually flushed a bit. He stole one glance at the two other men present: one pretending to be invisible, one trying to hide fascination. 

Then his posture slumped in defeat. "Yes, sir." 

" _Thank_ you." The Man didn't bask overtly in his apparent win, but he didn't soften his stance either. Those two words were a dismissal, nothing else. 

Protocol stipulates that one must not leave the presence of the President without being dismissed, not even the second-in-command. Not even a friend. Protocol also strongly discourages refusing to obey that dismissal when it comes. 

Protocol between friends can be a curse - and a weapon as well. 

Bartlet waited for Leo to move away, but not for him to actually leave, before making a firm attempt to banish the unpleasant mood and act like nothing had happened. "Right. Where were we, Captain?" 

Slowly, Yantze turned away from his inappropriate interest, retrieved his pen and prepared to resume note-taking. 

Leo cast one more glance back before he exited the Oval Office... but his boss studiously ignored him. Helpless to do otherwise, he closed the door between them. 

Margaret was waiting on the other side. She actually stepped back from the visible dark cloud that swept in. 

"Is everything all right? You look mad enough to eat someone." 

"Just the usual exercise in presidential hardheadedness." Dispiritedly, Leo fell rather than sat in his chair. "No one does denial better than he does." 

"Not even you." Margaret swallowed at his sudden glower, but didn't retract her double-sided observation. "What can we do?" 

"Don't worry about it. I still have one secret weapon left." Leo consulted his watch. "And unless I miss my guess, it's on its way."

* * *

Okay, I did _not_ need that. Bad enough that my eyes decided to play tricks on me, but it _had_ to happen in front of others. Especially Leo \- he won't forget, if I know him. 

I'm sure these two soldiers won't say anything. Even the kid taking notes has to know better than that, or they'd never let him in here in the first place. Still, the _last_ thing I want is to have _anyone_ wonder about my health. 

I'm just going to have to push harder, that's all. There's nothing wrong with me. I can take anything they dish out. 

* * *

Tuesday - late afternoon. 

One of the more subtle traps that any supervisor can fall into is the lure of micromanagement. A boss must give his or her people room to think for themselves, to use their talents and skills, without being watched every second. A boss must not constantly check up on his or her people while away. People serve their boss best with a little liberty, and bosses serve their people best by trusting that they all know how to do their jobs right. This is an especially hard policy to follow in a place of national leadership, where even small errors or misunderstandings can have colossal repercussions. 

Just in case that isn't enough to worry about, here is some more. When you work with a competitor, the instinct is to protect your own interests. When you work with a family member, the instinct is to overreact to the least problem. So what course is best when the competitor and the family member are one and the same? 

Lilli Mayes stood at the entrance under the North Portico, flanked by one other female employee and two towering Secret Service agents in their trademark black business suits. None of them spoke; all were watching the long ebony limousine and its escort pass the White House main gate and cruise up the long driveway towards them. 

No one would be able to see any of the passengers through those dark tinted windows. Nor would any observer standing outside that formidable wrought-iron fence be able to identify faces among the welcoming committee, more than two hundred yards distant. However, anyone with some basic knowledge could eliminate the obvious candidate: the President's motorcade would have been at least three times longer. 

The limo glided to a halt exactly in front of the building entrance. A waiting agent opened the passenger door. The dark interior held for one more heartbeat, then gave way before a source of undeniable light, and a veritable pocket Venus stepped into view. 

Abigail Bartlet automatically straightened her stylish ultramarine outfit and held herself gracefully poised, even though there were no photographers present at this time. Some habits are hard to break, and some are essential to maintain. Her appearance and manner were always important, whether she liked it or not. 

Lilli smiled. "Welcome home, ma'am." 

"Thank you, Lilli." The First Lady of the United States glanced past her Chief of Staff. "Hello, Maureen." 

"Ma'am." The secretary came forward and retrieved the waiting briefcase from the limo's back seat. 

Abbey headed straight into the White House with a purposeful stride. Everyone fell into step behind her - except for Lilli, whose position permitted her to walk alongside. 

"So far, the dividends from your trip are positive and still growing. I hope you had time to _enjoy_ it." She was taller by an inch or two, despite her own flat shoes and the three-inch stilettos her boss had made famous. 

"For the most part." Abbey nodded to those employees who happened to be around and were waving their own welcome as she passed. 

"I also hope there were no hurt feelings over your accelerated return." 

"The only thing left was some leisurely sight-seeing around Baton Rouge, followed by a night in their best hotel. I would've enjoyed both, but my primary business was done, so I might as well be here where the action is. The details, please." 

"Oh, hardly anything has changed since we spoke earlier -" 

Abbey smoothed back her richly cascading hair in a gesture of annoyance. "Lilli, on these trips the only person I speak to more often than my husband is you. It's not because I have any doubts as to how well you manage our end of business, and the President sure doesn't need my help to run _his_ end. Never mind that one hasty move or word from him can draw all public attention away from a week's worth of effort on my part. But if there's one thing he _can't_ do, it's hide trouble from me. Our last conversation rang definite alarm bells. Now out with it." 

Lilli sighed. It might have seemed inevitable from the start that she would end up fielding this dubious task. "Yes, ma'am."

* * *

It's been said countless times over countless years that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. This bit of philosophy has a strong vein of truth... but, like all axioms and prophecies, it can be interpreted in a variety of ways. Many good intentions turn out to be excellent choices after all, and help to reduce or even prevent catastrophe. The ones that do contribute to a downward spiral are quite often victims of bad timing or mere coincidence. The more spectacular bad choices - spectacular in their final consequences, not in their original purpose - get most of the bad press. However, if one were to take that philosophy as _fact,_ one would never dare to apply the virtue of good intention for fear of adverse reaction... and thus the world would be robbed of a powerful source of kindness. 

So, when one is determined to take well-intentioned steps, one goes with the gut and hopes for the best. Certainly the odds favor the right. 

C.J. knocked on the White House Social Director's door. "Trish?" 

"That's me." The office's resident stood to one side, consulting an enormous calendar that took up most of an entire wall. She lowered her notepad and smiled. "Hey, C.J. You don't normally wander this way in the middle of the week. What's new?" 

The Press Secretary consulted her memory. "New York, New Jersey, New Hampshire, New Mexico and New Orleans." 

Trish giggled. "And those are just the prominent ones - and the American ones, besides. I would've included New Brunswick and New Zealand. I will say, though, the President would be rather ticked with you if he heard that you were ranking his home state in third place." 

"If he mentions it, I'll know who told him." C.J. eyed the thick stack of work awaiting attention. "Do you have a minute?" 

"For you, always." Trish retreated behind her desk, ready for business, but did not sit down. Her visitor outranked every woman in the White House save the First Lady herself. "Even though you have a talent for making my life harder at times." 

C.J. allowed a brief grin. "Well, I work at it. Oh, and I hear an apology is long overdue on the name thing around here." Now her head tilted, in all seriousness. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? I've been calling you 'Patricia' from day one." 

Trish fiddled with her heavy-rimmed eyeglasses, shifted feet and looked down, suddenly far less assertive. "Well... it really isn't _that_ important. You've got enough on your mind." 

"Names _are_ important. Don't let the job deter you." C.J. moved a couple of steps closer, earnestness filling her voice. "I go by my initials for a reason: 'Claudia' is for family only. It's part of our relationship and part of my identity. I hate it when someone gets my name wrong - first _or_ last - so you should have the right to hate it too." 

Trish considered this for a few moments... and then relaxed. "Thanks. Considering some of the people I work with, it seemed petty to insist." 

"I shall endeavor not to intimidate you ever again." C.J. tried to look innocent. "Unless I need something, that is." 

"You know, I _thought_ there was an ulterior motive behind this visit," Trish laughed. "When I said 'what's new,' I meant just that. Got something to add to the calendar, right?" 

C.J.'s amusement vanished. "Wrong. I want to take a few things _off._ " 

Trish frowned in fair surprise. "Oh. Well, that's different. Not that I mind; things are kind of crowded these weeks, as you can imagine." 

"Can I ever." Deliberately, C.J. reached out and swung the office door closed. That notion made her hostess look up in even greater surprise. Clearly this discussion must not be overheard. The click of the latch sounded oddly loud. 

"Specifically, I want to lighten the President's schedule only. I need to know everything that's coming up, in order to decide what can be pared down." 

Trish just looked at her for a good three seconds, measuring the import to all this. 

"Carol gave me your message last week. You're really worried about him, aren't you?" 

C.J. nodded solemnly. "He's under a great deal of strain, and a lot of it comes from the constant volume of work. I want to ease that - any way I can." 

Trish's eyes widened behind her spectacles as mental relays clicked over. Her next words were drawn out and hushed. "He doesn't know you're doing this." 

"No, he doesn't. And hopefully it'll stay that way." There was no hesitation in the Press Secretary's voice. "It's my initiative. He's pushing himself too hard. If he won't listen to our advice, we have to take other measures. For his own good." 

"And if he finds out?" Trish asked, rather nervously. It was one thing to manage lesser issues that were not worthy of the Chief Executive's personal attention. It was quite another to handle his direct affairs behind his back, which by definition meant without his consent. 

C.J. folded her arms, taking her stand. "Then you make sure he knows that it's _my_ initiative. Not yours." 

Silence fell between them. The motive was noble and selfless. The action was at odds with everything written into their job descriptions. 

People in law enforcement and justice face this kind of dilemma all the time: weighing the letter of the law against its spirit. Duty... versus love. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, these two viewpoints are not compatible. 

The Social Director drew a slow, deep breath. "Okay, then. Let's see what we can single out. I just pray it doesn't come back to bite you." 

"Here, here," C.J. agreed wholeheartedly.

* * *

The sheer power that family ties can possess is staggering. People will often pay big money to redeem kidnap victims. People will frequently submit to blackmail rather than bring shame to their clan. People will sometimes die - or kill - to save their loved ones from harm. And people will on occasion grant full family status to a precious few who, though not related by blood or marriage, have grown as close and as trusted as any family member could hope to be. 

Blood may be thicker than water, but blood ties can still be rejected. Ultimately it is _devotion_ that binds forever. Heritage and marriage are simply the most common ways of providing the right conditions of proximity and tolerance needed in order to build that devotion. When a non-relative passes this same time-honored test, on friendship alone, without the pressure of expected familial loyalty, it is a grand thing indeed. 

Leo marched down the corridor of the West Wing, reading a report as he went. Everyone else got out of his way, and these halls were so familiar to him that he scarcely needed a glance up to find his own office door just fine. 

Margaret wasn't at her desk, off doing whatever work the Chief of Staff's own massive responsibilities required of her. Leo passed through to his inner sanctum without having to face her questions or sign her papers - 

"You know, it's funny." 

These sudden words, this enigmatic greeting, jarred him to a dead stop just past the threshold. His head snapped up. But even as surprise ricocheted through his nerves, he couldn't have failed to recognize the voice. 

Abbey Bartlet sat enthroned on the couch, angled slightly away from him, left elbow propped against the sofa back, left hand supporting her chin; the picture of comfort. Not looking his way. Her expression a bit too reserved for safety's sake. 

She could tell, of course, from the sudden cessation of approaching footsteps, that she had his undivided attention. 

"In my experience, you don't have to be a doctor to notice little things in people - although it certainly helps. When you know someone well enough, and you haven't seen that someone for awhile, then even slight changes can be glaringly obvious." She lowered her arm and steepled her fingers in her lap, staring into space as though ruminating upon the inner mysteries of the universe. "Whereas a person who works with this someone on a constant basis, even a person who also knows this someone very well, often fails to pick up on the signs of a growing problem... until that problem becomes impossible to miss." 

Slowly, Leo advanced again, his features now tight and apprehensive. 

"Still," the First Lady went on casually, though with a dark undercurrent, "medical training makes _sure_ that those little things don't go unaddressed." 

Then, with a sudden movement of her head, she directed the full force of her smoldering gaze upon the man she plainly deemed responsible for her current mood. 

Leo held himself still, much the same way animals will instinctively freeze when in danger. "Hello, Abbey. You're back early. Enjoy your trip?" At least he made the attempt to be polite and formal, even though his guest showed no indication of doing the same. 

She shrugged. Her expression didn't soften. "I've darted over a third of the country. Shaking hands, attending musicals, planting trees... all very important in their own way. Oh, I'm not complaining," she clarified honestly, without sarcasm. "Little tasks, but big contributions. I'm always glad to do whatever I can to help my husband, and his administration." 

Here Abbey paused, and it was like the gathering of the storm. "Speaking of whom, I hadn't seen him in ten days. Before I left, I saw a man in excellent humor and vitality. Now what do you suppose I saw less than thirty minutes ago?" 

If the most dangerous creature is a mother protecting its young, then the second most dangerous is a creature protecting its mate. 

"I haven't seen him myself within those thirty minutes, but I can guess." Leo turned, deposited the report on his desk, and revolved back, as though he felt he needed both hands free for the pending battle. Certainly he showed no sign of being cowed by the heat aimed his way. "You saw a man severely overworked, too busy to spend time with you, too exhausted even to joke much. And now you're here to accuse me of pushing him past his limits." 

She considered this intuitive diagnosis, her eyes narrowing even further \- though in less anger and more calculation. 

"This has been going on since last week, Abbey, and slowly getting worse. If you want, I'll line up witnesses to prove it." Leo was visibly fuming. When two concerned people meet, the anxiety grows in direct proportion. "He won't listen to me, to the rest of the staff, or to his own physical needs. We're doing our damnedest to get him to slow down, but our damnedest isn't worth much. I've been hoping all day that you'll have more success." 

Anger bled away from Abbey's posture. The blame didn't belong here. "I'm your weapon of last resort, huh?" 

"Just about." Leo almost smiled, but not quite. This unsuccessful attempt only added to his general air of uneasiness. 

In the next moment of quivering silence between them, Abbey rose. 

"Leo, what's wrong?" Her words acquired the merest waver. 

"I have no idea." The Chief of Staff, and the Bartlets' old family friend, confessed his failure with a sigh. "Nobody can tell what's driving him, but _something_ is. And until we know what, I can't see how we'll be able to help him." 

She crossed her arms and lifted her chin, radiating determination. "Well, we'll see if _I_ can't get it out of him." 

Leo rolled his eyes. "Good luck. He's missing a lot of sleep, too. Even you might have trouble dragging him out of the office. He must've guessed why you came home early. And unless I miss _my_ guess, that'll only get him to dig in harder." 

Things had to be bad in the White House if anyone who knew the First Couple could doubt the First Lady's ability to manage her husband - in some areas, at least. He was incredibly strong-willed... but then, so was she. 

Then another thought surfaced, providing Leo with a ray of hope. "If by some calamity you can't straighten him out, maybe we should ask Zoey to drop by. I've known her to talk sense into him in the past..." 

"No. Jed will only toughen up even more. He's got to play the strong, invincible father that his daughters have always believed in." 

A delicate pause. "Annie?" 

"Possibly," Abbey admitted with reluctance. "Still, I don't want to use my granddaughter as a tool - not even to knock some brains into my stubborn husband's thick head." She stared out the window into the gathering evening. "Leo, one thing I've wanted from the start of our term here is to keep my children out of the political arena as much as possible. They can't avoid all of it, but I will protect them whenever I possibly can. And you can't tell me that politics aren't at the root of _this_ mess." 

He came a step closer. "You're right, and I don't blame you one bit." 

They stood there, two friends worried about another, wondering what course to take next. 

"Abbey..." From Leo's tone, he was really hesitant to voice this next concept that had just occurred to him. 

From his tone, she could probably guess what was coming. 

"Could there be another cause than just tiredness?" 


	6. Harbinger 6

**Harbinger**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** The President's health is breaking down at last - but what exactly is the cause?  
**Written:** Feb, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2002, between “Stirred” and “Enemies Foreign and Domestic 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 6 ~ 

Tuesday - evening. 

All animals fear weakness. In the wild, an unforgiving environment that humans supposedly have renounced, only the strong survive. Weakness means lower status, loss of mating privileges, hunger, and often abandonment by the social group on which many species utterly depend. Even the mightiest predators can still become prey. In the wild, age and illness and injury are almost always death sentences. With a very short stay of execution. 

Humans invented civilization precisely to combat this harsh scenario. It is our belief that all people have innate value, that everyone merits a place in society at all times and in all conditions, that the old and sick and wounded among us deserve the best care we can give them. One might think that there is no longer a need to fear showing weakness at all, with such altruism to fall back on when needed. We have evolved. 

"Donna." A young woman came over and stood expectantly beside the desk of Josh's always-busy assistant. 

"Hi, Cecile." Obviously glad for a break, Donna abandoned her keyboard. "What's up?" 

Her visitor shrugged. "I came for the full skinny, of course. How's the President?" 

Donna tipped her head, not comprehending. "How should _I_ know?" 

"Hey, we all know something's wrong. He's almost never too rushed to at least smile at us in the halls, and he usually finds time to get our names all wrong. But he hasn't done either all week. It's getting really obvious." 

Slowly, Donna pushed her chair back, and a pinch of concern settled across her features. "Now that I think of it... you're right." 

"So what's with him these days?" 

The pinch became a frown. "Why are you asking _me?_ " 

Cecile planted hands on hips. "Oh, come on! At least he knows _you._ Besides, Josh must be in the loop; he always is." 

Something flashed in the depths of Donna's vision. "Which automatically means that I am too, right?" 

"Well, yeah..." Cecile must have glimpsed that flash, because her tone suddenly lost a lot of its conviction. 

Donna didn't rise. All at once her position as _Deputy_ Deputy White House Chief of Staff seemed to carry a considerable weight. To any observer this scene smacked of a supervisor chewing out a subordinate. 

"Let me make something clear to you." She kept her voice low and her expression as stern as possible - which, for this woman, was not very. "I am not a personal friend of the President. And while I may have Josh's confidence a lot of the time, he doesn't share _everything_ with me. In fact he'd be totally wrong to do so. And even if he did, it would be a _confidence_ \- not for relating to everyone else who stops by." 

Cecile started backing away before this speech was concluded. "Sorry, already." 

Now Donna looked aside, brows canted in distress. "You know, it _hurts_ to be thought of as Josh's lackey." 

Cecile didn't try to deny or confirm that statement. "Look, this isn't a matter of national security I'm asking about! Just one man's health. Of course we all want to know about _him._ " 

Donna's eyes grew round as she made the subsequent connection. "In this case it just might _be_ a matter of national security." 

Now thoroughly demoralized, Cecile beat a rapid retreat. 

Donna didn't resume her work at once, anxious thoughts almost visibly chasing each other around her brain. 

Cathy wandered over, arms piled with binders. She must have been close enough to witness the whole exchange. "I want you to know that not everyone thinks of you that way," she offered quietly. 

Donna shot a fast look around at the other employees within sight, none of whom appeared to be paying them any attention. "Thanks, Cathy. I sure _hope_ not." She pushed back her long blonde hair. "But either way, Cecile is right. I just hadn't noticed myself. The President definitely isn't one hundred percent." 

"Yeah; Sam's been watching him covertly for awhile now." Cathy set her substantial load down on the corner of her colleague's desk and leaned a hip beside it. "Of course, with the election coming up, he's under a lot of stress." 

"When is he _not_ under a lot of stress?" Donna countered. "The man _thrives_ on stress, or else he wouldn't be here in the first place!" 

"And he's always risen to the occasion before." 

Both fell silent for several heartbeats... 

Cathy straightened. "Hey, I just had a thought. Remember that group of schoolchildren on the White House tour last week?" 

"Yes..." 

"You know how germy kids can be. And of course the President shakes every hand he can reach. Want to bet he's caught something? In fact, how can he _not?_ " 

Donna pondered this. "You may have a point. Cold, flu, even a virus -" 

"Which of course will soon be passed on to diplomats and members of Congress." For some reason Cathy couldn't prevent a smile at this concept of mass contamination through the upper echelons of American society. 

"And in the meantime it provides one more distraction among many." Donna sighed and shook her head. "Possible, but I doubt it. He's too closely watched, _especially_ when it comes to his health." 

"I suppose. It was just an idea." 

"Want another one?" a man's voice asked from behind them. Both women pivoted. 

"Hello, Larry and Ed." Donna nodded to each of the two young men who had approached in silence. "Uh, did I get it right this time?" 

"Almost," one of them told her with a grin, as though the possibilities could have been more varied than 'yes' or 'no.' All of the administrative staff in the White House knew these two advisors, but hardly anyone could tell them apart. They always seemed to be together. Almost everyone had given up trying to differentiate - including, it seemed, Larry and Ed themselves. 

"Sorry to eavesdrop," the other apologized, "but we couldn't help overhearing." 

"And I just said I didn't want to talk about this," Donna muttered, in a reluctant tone that indicated she was still willing to listen. 

"Everyone knows the President is a naturally clumsy guy," Larry/Ed pointed out. "Maybe he stumbled and banged something. Bruises are always annoyingly persistent distractions." 

"Besides," Ed/Larry chimed in, "he's been known to have back problems." 

Cathy rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "Sam was wondering about that." 

Larry/Ed raised both palms. "There you go." 

"Perhaps." Donna didn't sound convinced, though. 

Ed/Larry raised both eyebrows. "Or something with his balance?" 

Donna paled visibly. "Please God, no." 

Of this quartet, only she had been on the campaign trail, and therefore present when Jed Bartlet collapsed of a supposed ear infection in St. Louis. That collapse was not particularly common knowledge... but for eleven months now the slightest hint of poor presidential health set off MS sirens straight across the country. 

Four pairs of eyes flashed together, all sharing the same sudden, horrid suspicion. 

Abruptly, Donna stood and reached for some papers. "I have to get back to work." 

She didn't advise them to do the same, but her example shamed all three into doing so. 

Of course, their new source of fear could not be left behind so easily. 

Reports in hand, Donna headed for the main corridor. Anyone who passed her would have known that she had something serious on her mind; usually this was one of the sunniest personalities in the West Wing. 

Then, straight ahead, a dark-suited man turned the corner and headed swiftly this way, a hand to his ear. 

Instantly everyone else in the hall moved to one side or the other and squared up. When a Secret Service agent marched like that, the President was right behind. 

Sure enough, with one more bodyguard preceding him and an extra four bringing up the rear, Bartlet rounded that same corner and walked between two walls of politely silent employees, all at attention, all watching him pass. 

Always he gave at least a nod of acknowledgment at being granted the right of way. Usually he had a joke ready for the occasion, such as feeling like Moses at the Red Sea. 

This evening he did neither. Famous features set in a near-scowl, he seemed to see no one at all. 

Until, that is, he happened to spot the assistant to his Deputy Chief of Staff. 

Hugging those files to her chest like a shield, Donna quickly twisted her anxious expression into a brave attempt at a smile. "Mr. President." 

"Donna." He returned her greeting pleasantly enough, but he didn't slow down, and he didn't smile back. In fact, he seemed to measure her where she stood. 

And then he was by, continuing on his way. 

Almost everyone kept watching until he disappeared from sight. At least one pair of eyes fairly brimmed with concern. 

The executive parade over, everyone else resumed his or her own course... except one. Donna just stood there, still staring. 

Then she exhaled and spoke softly to herself. "This is definitely wrong. Josh, will you please get back here?" It always helps to talk over your worries with a friend. 

She twisted away - and almost crashed full-length into Toby. 

"Oh, I'm sorry." She scrambled to keep hold of her files. 

"It's okay. I shouldn't have sneaked up on you." The Communications Director stepped back. "I was going to ask you where Josh is. Obviously, he's not here." He must have overheard her wishing aloud. 

"No, he's on the Hill." 

"Right. Tell him to come see me when he gets back." As brief and reserved as ever, Toby said no more before moving on. 

Donna watched _him_ stride away from her as well, but this time her expression was different. All at once she hurried after him. 

Toby reached his office and was about to close the door when he discovered that he had a following. 

"Hi again." Donna hesitated, then plucked up her courage. "Uh... may I speak with you?"

* * *

I can feel it. Everyone's watching me. 

Oh, that happens all the time. Took me years to get used to it. Goes with the territory. Just one of the costs of fame. 

But this is different. I can tell. It's not because I'm the President. They're _watching_ me. 

What are they watching _for?_ What do they expect to see? 

Some kind of failing? Indecisiveness? _Weakness?_

Whatever it is, they _won't_ find it.

* * *

Honesty and reality go hand in hand, but they are not codependent. One can be confronted with reality and yet not admit to its truth, and one can be honest without possessing an awareness of reality's hard facts. Only when one faces reality _with_ honesty, neither jumping to conclusions nor pretending that situations are otherwise, can one expect to succeed on anything besides blind luck. 

In the direst moments, the ultimate challenge is to be absolutely honest with oneself. 

The White House Deputy Legal Counsel paced the length of her basement office, back and forth, never slowing down, never stopping. Her expression was taut; her posture was stiff; her hands kept fidgeting. In fact she seemed oblivious to her surroundings, her eyes focused on a foreign dimension. 

This was not the attitude of someone wrestling with a stubborn problem, or waiting to receive a critical news flash. This was more like a prisoner on Death Row. 

"Miss Hayes?" 

Ainsley did a violent about-face. Bad enough to be feeling this kind of nervousness; she actually had to be caught displaying it. And, of course, by the very person she was expecting. 

"Mrs. Bartlet." Then memory kicked in. "Oh - I mean, _Doctor_ Bartlet." Then another, less pleasant memory intruded as well. "Uh - that is, I mean -" 

The First Lady raised a calming hand. "Take it easy. _Mrs._ will do just fine." 

Somehow, Ainsley managed to clamp a stranglehold on herself. "Yes, ma'am." 

Abbey waited politely; she had not yet been invited to enter. Despite their privileged place at the very top of the American heap, neither half of the First Couple enjoyed exploiting that fact. That is, except in special circumstances. 

Ainsley got the idea in a rush. "Please, come in." She backed up, granting her illustrious visitor as much room as possible. 

Outside, a tall woman in a simple skirt-suit took up a protective stance by the door, a loud indication of who was inside. 

"While we're on the subject of names, Miss Hayes, how do _you_ like to be addressed?" 

"Oh, whatever makes you comfortable, ma'am," Ainsley said at once, still full of the jitters. 

"No - whatever makes _you_ comfortable. It's your name we're talking about now." Abbey was going well out of her way to put this frightened young woman at ease. 

Said frightened young woman needed an extra moment to form words coherently. "Ma'am, I'd consider it an honor if you'd use my first name." 

Everyone in the United States knew this smile. "Thank you, Ainsley. I shall." 

Abbey glanced about. "Nice office. I heard about your first location. I'm glad you've since moved out of _that_ dungeon." 

Almost anything would be an improvement over the steam pipe trunk distribution venue. But there was a reason why Ainsley had accepted that dismal hole of an office at the start. "I'm grateful for any space you can spare me, ma'am." 

"Oh, yes. I've heard the saying that people would prefer half of a windowless closet here than a luxury suite across the road. Beats me why." Of course Abbey couldn't be _that_ unaware of the prestige of her own home, but she chose to brush off the whole matter of privilege as unimportant. She settled herself into the lone visitor chair with quiet composure. "I appreciate you taking the time to see me." 

"As if anyone in the country would refuse!" That astonished exclamation burst out before Ainsley could prevent it. 

"You might be surprised." Her guest's smile widened. "Not everyone wants to meet the wife of the President." Then the smile faded. "As it stands, this opening in your schedule worked out very well. I really didn't want to speak to Oliver tonight, anyway." 

Ainsley blinked in fair disbelief. "Oh?" Naturally her boss deserved the honor of attending the Bartlets. Not his deputy, a mere child by comparison - and a Republican to boot. 

"No, he chose the perfect time to be away. I want to be advised, not talked down to." 

Ainsley stood speechless at this, no doubt amazed that _anyone_ would dare talk down to the First Lady. 

Abbey waited again, not hurried in the least, until her temporary lawyer had digested all of this and remembered to sit down herself. 

"Well. I shall do my best. How might I be of help, ma'am?" 

For the first time, Abbey's calm faltered. 

"I presume you're aware of the President's medical condition." 

Ainsley gulped a bit before she could even summon a nod. The purpose behind this meeting had suddenly become crystal clear, as well as its potential import. 

"There are certain additional points you should know as well." Abbey adopted a lecturer's pose, her voice cool and withdrawn, as though nothing she said had any personal meaning. "You must've heard lists of symptoms of MS by now. What people often forget is that many of those symptoms can also be caused by totally unrelated conditions. For instance, influenza causes exhaustion and sometimes muscle weakness. Ear infections result in dizziness. Hand tremors and blurry vision can crop up in any of us when we're overtired." 

Ainsley tried hard to duplicate this neutral tone of voice. "You're saying that if the President does show any of these signs, it doesn't automatically mean he's having an attack." 

"Exactly. However, when the cause is something else, MS can greatly inhibit the patient's recovery, even from something so simple as a slight cold. Not always, but sometimes." Abbey almost sounded like she was trying to reassure herself more than her listener. 

Ainsley was sharp; she wouldn't have landed this job otherwise. "So you wonder if an ache in the limbs is the disease, or instead a physical injury like a bruise - or even a fracture. Which requires tests to be run... which raises questions." 

Abbey gave one short nod. Even after nine years and more, she wasn't comfortable discussing the nightmare that could befall her husband in the very near future. 

"The President is currently receiving injections every other day of interferon beta 1-b. It reduces the risk of a relapse by about thirty percent, the severity of a relapse is less, the defects in the brain's white matter as observed in an MRI scan are reduced, and the progress of disability is slowed." She struggled to keep her professional mask fixed in place. "Missing any treatments in such a frequent regime is _not_ a good idea. As a result, all three of our daughters have been trained to administer the serum whenever I'm not around. The physician appointed to the President, of course, was also in the know." 

Ainsley forced herself to process these facts in the same academic manner. It was the only way to think clearly. "Consider the logistics of day-to-day living, what with his incredibly full schedule. Never mind the political and public fallout." 

Abbey looked down. "We cherish our privacy. Not just because of the fishbowl life we live - and not just because for years so few people knew about the President's condition, either. It's a matter of personal dignity." 

She let out a long, slow breath. "The only real action considered beneficial to long-term treatment is to try to live as stress-free a life as possible. So my husband sure picked the right job." She grinned, but it was a fleeting thing and void of humor. "When he announced his intention to run again, he gave me the second biggest scare of my life." She didn't need to indicate the one instant that had superseded even that. 

Silence fell, Ainsley watching the First Lady, who did not meet her gaze. 

"You're worried about whether he's having a relapse _now,_ " the lawyer realized, fear leeching into her voice. 

Abbey gathered purpose around her like a cloak. "Oh, I'm sure that's what the staff _are_ thinking, and what the public _will_ be thinking. There's no way to hide a problem with the President's health, especially now. But no, I'm pretty sure he's just stressed and overworked. However, I don't take chances with this - public awareness or not. Besides, things can't be allowed to progress very far before action _must_ be taken, no matter _what_ the cause. Leader of the nation and all that." She failed to inject the levity one might expect from such a light comment. "I'm going to get him to take a full medical examination tonight. I don't care how much he objects." Her vision flared with the light of combat, doubtless anticipating a vociferous objection indeed. 

Ainsley couldn't prevent a grin as well, but hers didn't last either. "How can I help?" 

Now a new shadow crossed Abbey's face... a shadow of genuine and terrible loss. "I've forfeited my license." 

Pause. "I know. I'm sorry." 

"It was for the best." Just empty words, false platitudes trying to encompass a fathomless bereavement. "I've long accepted the need to have the assigned doctors present anyway." 

Then something behind this urgent self-control cracked. "But now I don't have any choice at all! That's another form of privacy and of preference that we've been denied. I have the skill to treat my husband, and the inclination - and _I can't._ " 

Silence thudded to the floor between them. Ainsley made no attempt to break it, studying this internationally renowned woman with frank sympathy. 

Slowly, Abbey regrouped. After several long seconds, as tense as piano wire, she faced her new confidant again. 

"I know the legal morass I caused before. I need to know what legal quandary we're in for _now._ I need to know what kind of backlash that losing my license has in store for all of us. I still have the training, the knowledge. Plus, I _know_ my husband - his physical and mental health together. He's never liked doctors, or tests, or being made to look like an invalid. I intend to be there for every exam, every diagnosis. For _him._ I have to know just as badly as he does. No one can take _that_ away from me, at least." 

Her face tightened, unyielding in its premeditation. "But I don't want to make his own legal _and_ political situation worse. I have to eliminate the slightest suspicion of a cover-up, and any implication that he's failing when he's not." 

She spoke softly now, cool and dangerous. "And I need to know what extra steps I can take to ensure that _nothing_ harms him."

* * *

Wednesday - early morning. 

In any government, an excellent way to measure your genuine importance is to judge your level of access to the top. If you are permitted to drop in on the President without an appointment, if you are given the number to the phone on his desk, if you are known by name to his closest advisors and assistants, then you are in exclusive company indeed. The flip side to this can be found in the root of "exclusive": to exclude. When, either for security reasons, lack of knowledge or experience, or sheer low importance, you are not entitled to _in_ clusion. 

Josh came out of his office and glanced in all directions, like a rabbit checking to see if there were predators about. 

"Toby!" He launched himself towards the Communications Director. Apparently _he_ wasn't the predator to be feared at this moment. 

Toby didn't slow down, change course or even offer a nod. "Leave me alone, Josh. I've been summoned." And only one person issued such a summons around here. 

"Me, too." The Deputy Chief of Staff fell in behind and to one side, as though he were the lower ranked of the two. Or, as though he wanted to let his companion take the brunt of the hall traffic _and_ the summons. "What do you think happened this time?" 

Toby wore as close to a look of apprehension as he ever got. "Well, I don't know what _has_ happened, but I've got a pretty good idea what _will_ happen." 

Josh was on the same wavelength. He shook his head in despair. "We're gonna get our asses handed to us." 

C.J. and Sam were already waiting in Leo's office when Toby and Josh arrived. 

"I guess the clock had to run out at some point," the Press Secretary observed, sounding resigned. 

"What do you think the sentence will be?" Sam ran one hand along his shirt collar in a nervous motion. 

C.J. shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "For conspiring against the President in his own House?" 

Sam groaned. "We'll be scrubbing the mess hall floors for sure." 

"With a toothbrush." 

He raised his head in some surprise. "That's a _fraternity_ thing." 

C.J. rolled her eyes. "Women have their associations, too, you know." 

Sam's counterattack died stillborn as Leo marched in. Here was the answer to all their concerns. 

Rather than address such concerns, the Chief of Staff parted their ranks and headed for the door to the Oval Office beyond. "Let's get this over with. We still have work to do." 

"Yeah, but will we still have _jobs?_ " Josh wondered aloud. 

The President was seated in one of his patterned armchairs, jotting notes down on a pad. Across the Seal from him sat Trish Podolska, doing much the same. 

"So... photo op this afternoon, dinner tomorrow, student rally Friday. Those are the big things." 

"Yes, Mr. President." 

"Busy time. At least _next_ week isn't so bad." 

There might have been a faint hint of sarcasm in his voice. However, before Trish could comment on that fact, and perhaps do some accidental damage in the process, the latch to the door at Bartlet's back clicked audibly. He started, twisting that way at once. 

"Sir?" Leo inquired, ever in the lead. The four behind him seemed content almost to hide in his shadow. 

"Good, you're all here." The President turned back, and put his pad down on the side table. "We'll pick this up again later, Patti." 

Perhaps only C.J. noticed the set to the Social Director's shoulders. Part of it must have been due to this sudden eviction. Part of it, too, had to be their leader's persisting inability to get names right. 

"Yes, Mr. President." With no visible sign of disappointment or irritation, and certainly no comment on her executive moniker, Trish gathered papers together and took her leave. She was not cleared for the information about to be discussed here, not important enough to take part. 

She did not look at the Press Secretary before stepping out. 

For her part, C.J. resisted any impulse to support a friend on matters of identity. Even though _she_ had no fear of speaking up to the President (politely, of course), doing so now would embarrass Trish more than it would justify her. Besides, the whole Senior Staff was in hot water already. 

As the door into reception closed, the new arrivals slowly approached. All of them maintained a peculiar silence, completely out of character. They even _walked_ quietly, as though fearing an ambush at any instant. They were, after all, in the lion's den. 

Bartlet removed his reading glasses and tucked them into his left shirt pocket, slipped his pen into his inside jacket pocket, then rose and moved behind his desk. Every motion was firm and deliberate. "Friday's gotten so crammed that I've had to reschedule meetings left and right. A guy can lose track of which day it is all too easily. But then, busy days keep the circulation going." 

No one spoke. Even Leo looked braced for a dressing-down. They resembled nothing so much as a bunch of schoolchildren hauled before their principal. 

The President stood tall, all ten fingertips resting lightly on the top surface of his blotter. Not quite frowning, but almost. A lecturer's pose if ever there was one. 

"How many of you knew that there's a fully functional operating theater and small-scale hospital in the basement of this edifice?" 

Several uncertain stares and even more uncertain nods greeted his non sequitur. 

"Is there need of it, sir?" Leo shifted quickly into protective mode. 

"There was." 

Blithely ignoring what had to be spiking anxiety at that unexpected and ominous bulletin, Bartlet continued. "At the subtle encouragement of certain staff members of mine, and the not-so-subtle insistence of a certain wife of mine, last night I underwent a complete physical exam and hematology work-up." 

Five pairs of eyes grew round, in what could only have been _fear._ Good Lord, what news did he now have for them - 

Whatever it might be, it trumped any concern they'd ever felt for _themselves._

Their leader let them stew for a good few heartbeats, then picked up a single paper from the side of his desk - and slapped it down dead-center. 

"My clean bill of health. Signed by two independent physicians." 

All five staffers let out a deep breath of relief. Josh and Sam were the loudest, Toby the quietest... but the relief was equal all round, and heartfelt. So heartfelt, in fact, that for several seconds no one could speak. 

The President took his hand off that paper, as though permitting anyone who didn't believe him to read for themselves. "No viruses, no injuries, no _relapse!_ And no possible hint of collusion or secrecy. This report goes to the press at once." 

He folded his arms and stood there before them, the picture of unassailable strength. 

Leo recovered first, a slight smile crinkling his eyes. "Excellent news, sir." Three broad grins behind him endorsed that statement in full. 

Strangely, that strength now seemed to diminish, and that stature to slump. "At least here I had some semblance of privacy in the testing. Better than the hospital, if not as private as things used to be." 

Bartlet couldn't be blaming these people lined up before him, not _really_... and yet how could any of them _not_ feel that they were to blame for subjecting their boss to the indignity of such a procedure, a procedure that would now be discussed by the whole world? 

He went on without waiting for their reaction. "I'm not going to tell you how hard it was for Abbey and me to go through that. Both of us like being in charge." 

The guilt climbed higher still. Not even that tongue-in-cheek addendum could lighten it. 

The President met every person's gaze, one by one. "So. I trust this lays to rest any fears about my fitness for duty - in the eyes of my constituents, my employees, my friends, and my family." He didn't go quite so far as to say that this quintet fell into all four categories... but the implication was there, in his words and his tone. That eased the sting of his unspoken reprimand for their lack of faith. 

Leo nodded gravely, the way he often did to mask both delight and depression. "Yes, _sir._ " 

"Good. Now go away and let me get back to work." 

Again with the jarring dismissal, and the overburdened workload. Josh, C.J. and Sam traded sharp glances. Toby and Leo both remained fully focused upon the man behind the desk. 

Bartlet picked up that medical report and extended it. "C.J., you know what to do with this." 

She accepted it. "Yes, Mr. President." 

Leo nodded again. "Thank you, Mr. President." 

The others snatched this cue and trooped out the same way they'd come in. 

Behind them, the intercom button on the "Resolute" desk clicked. "Ruth, could you come in for a minute, please." 

_"Yes, Mr. President."_

Not until the door to the Chief of Staff's office closed tight between them and their leader did anyone dare speak. The moment Leo shut it, though, exhalations blew out on all sides. 

"It's not a relapse." Josh was ready to celebrate on that point alone. 

"It's not his back, either," Sam added with no less delight, glad that his earlier suspicion had proved groundless. 

"Or any sickness that they can find." Curiously, C.J. sounded rather less pleased. Of course, finding a simple and easily treatable condition is reassuring in itself. 

"He's okay after all!" Josh enthused, blind to anything else. 

"No, he's _not._ " 

As usual, it was Toby who drove through the euphoria with a truckload of pessimism. His colleagues all yanked in his direction. 

This time, Leo was in full agreement from the start. "Concurred. I don't care what that medical test said; it's missed something somewhere. He's still not _right._ " 

Slowly, this inner core of executive confidants began to see through their initial relief, and to fasten on the easily-missed truth, and to share dark nods of agreement. 

The problem now was, all the usual suspects had been eliminated. What remained that could threaten the American President?

* * *

I knew there was nothing wrong. Showed them! I don't need to slow down or take it easy. I'm as fit as a fiddle. Bring on the worst. 

But why can't they trust me better than this? 

What is _with_ everyone these days? How have they managed to convince themselves that there's a problem? 

Well, now I've proven that they have nothing to worry about. Maybe next time they'll just take my word for it. 


	7. Harbinger 7

**Harbinger**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** The President's health is breaking down at last - but what exactly is the cause?  
**Written:** Feb, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2002, between “Stirred” and “Enemies Foreign and Domestic 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 7 ~ 

Wednesday - late morning. 

There are exceptions to every rule, but it is generally best to avoid the extremes of any scale. People and organizations both work better with a happy medium. Too fast and you make mistakes; too slow and you miss deadlines. Great power can create a sense of invincibility, no power a sense of uselessness. One should be self-confident but not overbearing; one should feel humble but not inferior. One can be adventurous without getting reckless; one must exhibit caution without becoming timid. 

Paranoia is caution spun out of control. 

"Ma'am?" Maureen paused on the threshold of the First Lady's office. 

Abbey didn't look up, phone under her chin and pen in her hand. "Just a moment, please, Mr. Farina. Yes, Maureen?" 

"Admiral Morrow is here." 

Abbey's whole body solidified, eyes suddenly wide, the pen hovering in mid-air. 

"Mr. Farina, I apologize, but I'll have to call you back." Pause. "Thanks." She hung up. 

Only then did she raise her head. Her features were very carefully guarded indeed. "Send him in." 

The secretary retreated, to be replaced by the medal-bedecked dress uniform of the President's official physician. 

"Dr. Bartlet." This military doctor graciously extended a title his hostess had voluntarily yielded for her husband's sake. Being a physician himself gave him a slightly different viewpoint than most. He stopped just short of her desk and stood at attention. At least two file folders peeped under his left sleeve. "Sorry to intrude." 

Abbey rose to mirror his stance, almost _too_ composed, her gaze involuntarily drawn to those files. "Admiral. Please have a seat." 

"Thank you, ma'am." For some reason, he did not accept this invitation. "I won't waste your time." He formally presented the folders, an action made easier by the fact that both people were still standing. 

She accepted, visibly torn between desire to know their contents and fear of what those contents might be. 

Morrow kindly didn't wait for her to wade through the many pages of medical jargon. "The results of the re-testing. Ma'am, everything's negative." 

Silence, and stillness. 

"Everything?" She couldn't resist checking for herself. 

"Yes, ma'am." Now the Admiral did have a seat, folding his tall frame into one of the guest chairs. It was a gesture of confidence that denied any concern. Automatically, Abbey followed suit, still studying the reports. 

She exhaled a bit unsteadily. "I admit I was afraid... afraid that we'd rushed the procedures too much. That we'd missed something." 

"Oh, we rushed them, all right. I knew you'd want the findings at once, and for the President our people worked around the clock. But we didn't rush so much that we compromised the quality. Just to be safe, though, I arranged for two separate lab teams last night. They received identical samples at the same time. The first team worked as fast as humanly possible; that was the report you received first thing this morning. The second team concentrated on absolute certainty." Morrow wore a look of distinct satisfaction. "They took over twice as long, but the later results concur, ma'am. All as normal as they can possibly get. Everything considered, the President is in good shape. Just worn down with overwork." 

Slowly, Abbey set the folders down. She could not have gotten through all of them that fast; she was relying on her official colleague's word. 

The growing smile on her face indicated that she did so without reservation. "Well, Admiral, that's better news than I had dared hope for." 

"My pleasure, ma'am. And may I say I'm glad for both of you." 

"But not for the country itself?" she said with a brief dash of humor. 

He pretended to consider it. "Well, maybe for them as well." 

"Good." 

Then Abbey reopened the folder and started flipping pages again, after one particular test result. "This _seems_ to answer the big question: is it just exhaustion?" 

"All the chemistry says so. There's nothing else out of whack." 

"If so, it's a chemistry that's never hit him before." She singled out the specific paper and held it up for re-examination. "He's not just fatigued; he's moody and short with everyone. It's quite unlike him." Her brow furrowed. "Huh. Certain cerebral enzymes seem rather high, but still within accepted norms." She had engaged full clinical mode now, her emotions carefully set aside. No one listening to this could guess who the patient might be. 

Morrow shrugged. "Of course all these tests would have been exhausting in themselves, both physically and emotionally." 

"Except that this attitude of his has been going on for over a week." Abbey resumed her search through the file, eyes flicking rapidly down endless columns of figures. "He won't relax, or slow down - or even sleep that much. Sure, all that would lead to persistent tiredness. But we're no closer to the _cause._ What is it that's driving him to drive himself?" 

The Admiral tugged at his mustache. "The usual workload, the election coming up..." 

"Uh-uh. Even though this is a huge election, and his _last_ one, that isn't enough." Abbey's vision turned inward. "Maybe he's pushing himself to prove that he's sound. After all, he's the leader; he has to stay in charge. Besides, he knows that steps would have to be taken if he _wasn't_ sound." 

"If so, he's created a vicious circle for himself." Morrow leaned forward earnestly. "Either way, ma'am, you've got to get your husband to slow down." Now that was extraordinary; non-family members always used Jed Bartlet's title, even in the third person, even when they knew him personally. This medical officer seemed to feel that he'd been granted a bit of the First Lady's private confidence. "He really is in a state of exhaustion. And while it's not actually responsible, it's a direct result and it's not helping one bit." 

"Tell me about it. And then maybe you can come up with a way to tell _him_ without jump-starting him into a fine state of defensiveness, which will only make things worse." She closed the file and rested one elbow on it. "He's not well. We can all see that. And he won't take kindly to being told as much." Her breath hissed out. "This is annoying. The finest medical research in the world can't say for sure what's wrong with one man." 

"We ran all the standard tests, all the MS tests, and several tests that are less standard, just to play it safe. Still, there are other procedures, even more specific. Of course that would mean a trip to the big equipment at Bethesda. Although to be frank, after all this, the odds on discovering anything different -" 

Abbey looked at him askance. "Admiral, it took all my powers of persuasion and downright bullying to get his consent last night. He won't agree to go under the microscope again anytime soon, believe you me." She sat back with a sigh. "Besides, I can tell you what he's thinking right now: that these negative tests are proof positive that he's fine." 

"What they prove, ma'am, is that the most likely conditions, and many others besides, have been refuted. We can't say for certain that it's simple exhaustion, because there are so few _measurable_ symptoms." 

"I know." She despondently shoved the folder a few inches away. "And the mystery is just as frustrating as all the rest." 

Morrow slumped back, still without a solution and clearly not liking it. "Whatever the culprit might be, ma'am, it almost has to be a political problem, not a medical one." 

Silence lengthened - the silence of defeat. 

Then, by visible increments, the First Lady's expression shifted... from annoyance... through suspicion... towards horror. 

The Admiral frowned. "Ma'am?" 

At first she couldn't even articulate her new, shocking theory. 

"A _political_ problem..." 

He waited anxiously, leaning forward this time so as not to miss a word. 

"What if... we've been looking for the wrong thing all along?" 

Morrow angled his head, trying to understand. "Ma'am..." 

Abbey sat very still, genuinely frightened. "What if it's not even _natural?_ " 

The official physician gaped, comprehending at once. "You mean it might be _induced?_ " 

The very thought was staggering. "But how? The security around here..." She forced herself to confront a truly nightmarish concept. "How could anyone get anything into the White House?" 

Then - "The prescriptions! Could they be tampered with?" 

Morrow shook his head. "All of the President's medications are in their correct amounts. If he'd mixed any, or _missed_ any, the imbalance would show up in his blood. We were watching for them." 

Stymied there, Abbey leaped to another appalling premise. "But what if something was added at the source? Or even - I don't know - _engineered_ to interact with the assigned substances? Something really hard to trace?" 

"Highly unlikely... but not impossible." The Admiral rose to his feet, charged with purpose. "I know the lab saved a few specimens from last night, just in case we came up with new ideas at a later date. I promise, ma'am, we'll screen them with everything we've got against every kind of drug and toxin in existence." That was a solemn vow. 

"Do it. I'll call Ron Butterfield." Abbey seized her phone. "It's just possible that my husband is being poisoned."

* * *

Wednesday - early afternoon. 

Franklin D. Roosevelt, less than a month after Pearl Harbor, outlined succinctly and masterfully the basic values upon which all of America was founded, values that should apply everywhere in the world. The first was freedom of expression. The second was freedom of religion. The third was freedom from want. The fourth was freedom from fear. 

One of the most basic needs of humans, and the majority of other animal species as well, is for safety - to be free from fear. The sentient mind cannot endure a constant state of terror, whether for its current condition or for the uncertain future. Either it has to move on to other things at some point, even temporarily... or it breaks down. 

The moment Donna stepped back inside the White House, she noticed the change. Secret Service agents were everywhere, far more so than when she'd left. No one openly challenged her, and her electronic pass-code still worked fine... but the pressure of their ominous presence could not be mistaken. She watched them out of the corner of her eye as she negotiated the lobby, cautious and uneasy. 

Things didn't change just because she'd cleared the first screening station, either. Black suits and stern faces met her at every turn. She came upon a few agents rather suddenly, at hall junctures, and shrank away from them so fast that no observer could have labeled her current emotion as anything less than fear. 

She didn't even stop at her own desk, but kept right on going. 

"Josh!" 

He started up from his papers; her voice was strangely sharp and cut through his thoughts. Typically, he tried to cover at once. 

"Man, you take long lunches. Now it's _my_ turn." 

Donna ignored the comment. That in itself was unusual for her; it had become almost a matter of principle that she not yield ground to him. "Something's up." 

"What are you talking about?" Josh asked absently, not too interested in her reply. 

She waved out his door towards the hall. "The security -" 

He airily dismissed her. "You mean you're not used to it by _now?_ When is there _not_ security around here?" 

"To _this_ extent? Not since Rosslyn." 

Josh stiffened. That was one word, one term, one reference which his assistant never dropped if she could possibly help it. It underscored in heavy black marker what she'd been trying to tell him. 

Then he rose and came to stand beside her, evaluating the restrained frenzy just beyond, testing the waters, feeling the current's change. 

"You're right. I sure wish you weren't." 

Donna exhaled in exasperation despite her anxiety. "This is no time to complain about how you always lose our arguments!" 

For once, Josh was too preoccupied to rebut at all. "That's not what I meant. Something _is_ up." 

"You quoted me." She looked less than thrilled - and not because he _had_ quoted her, much less failed to acknowledge her copyright. 

He didn't even notice. His voice lowered, as though speaking to himself. "Leo will know why." So saying, he took off down the hall. 

Donna trailed her boss silently, nervously for a few dozen yards... then she slowed to a stop. As much as she also wanted to know, she wasn't Senior Staff herself. Her place was to mind the shop until her boss came back. Nothing more. 

Josh practically burst into Leo's outer office. "Is he in?" he demanded to Margaret 

The secretary looked up, raised her hand to point and opened her mouth to reply, but he hurried past without even pausing to make sure of her answer. She gave up on words, lowered her arm and watched him rush by, her expression sliding towards apprehensive. 

"Leo -" 

The Chief of Staff stood behind his desk, a file folder in each hand, glancing from one to the other. He didn't raise his eyes. "I know." 

"What's the crisis?" 

"Hang on a sec." Leo looked distracted, but his tone was as firm and calm as ever. 

By contrast, Josh looked flustered. "Hang on? All of a sudden this place is _crawling_ with security! Can't you tell me why?" 

"While you're at it, maybe you could tell me as well," Sam interrupted, entering at that moment. "What three kinds of hell broke loose this time?" 

Josh raised his empty palms. He appeared relieved that someone else was also out of the loop. "You got me, but odds are we won't like it." 

Sam grunted. "Oh, _there's_ a surprise. We don't even like some of the _good_ things that happen here." 

"True, that. Let us in, Leo." 

Their boss still didn't spare either of them a glance. "In a minute." 

"Why the wait?" Josh pressed - 

A new voice penetrated this office, preceding its owner like a herald. "All right, when did we declare war?" 

Josh and Sam shared a knowing look, and rotated together to face Toby's vocal entrance. 

The Director of Communications stormed in among them. "Or has the Constitution been remanded to turn the Land of the Free into a police state?" 

Josh let out a half-snort. "Want to bet it's even worse?" 

"With our average?" Sam pocketed both hands. "Guaranteed." 

"Leo..." Toby's quiet demand brooked neither denial nor delay. 

"Suspected White House security breach," Leo announced, still perusing his reports. Of course, that provided little the guys hadn't already guessed. He checked his watch. "News travels as fast as always. I didn't even have to invite you here. We're just waiting for C.J." 

"Then your vigil is over." The Press Secretary had arrived with perfect timing to overhear. Everyone turned - except Leo, who was already aimed in her direction. "Looks like this is _the_ place to hang out right now," she observed, liberal sarcasm only partially masking her concern. 

"Not for long; I don't have time to run a daycare. Shut the door." 

She did, establishing their secrecy. They had all gravitated to the premier well of information; their war council was complete. 

Leo dropped the files on his desk and removed his reading glasses. His face was a study in grimness, his posture an exercise in tight self-control. He drew a careful breath. 

"I wanted to say this only once. There's a slim but real possibility that the President's been poisoned." 

Horror has a genuine sound. Or, more specifically, it is the _absence_ of sound. It is the sound made when four hearts and four sets of lungs slam to a screeching halt. 

For one protracted moment - a moment in which four pulses dared not beat \- this office was absolutely silent and absolutely still. Even Leo didn't move. 

Then breath and words exploded in unison. 

"My God, no." 

"It CAN'T be -!" 

"In THIS place? Not possible!" 

"Is he all right? Is he GOING to be all right?" 

"He's GOT to be all right!" 

"How -" 

"WHO -" 

"What do we DO?" 

"Get a grip." Leo forcibly imposed order upon chaos. "It's a possibility \- that's all." 

Even the slimmest chance of it being true was frightful. Toby staggered backward, so shocked that he almost forgot how to stand upright. C.J. lowered herself into the nearest chair, slowly, as though afraid she'd fall over if she moved too fast. Josh and Sam made credible bookends: faces pale, mouths open, eyes wide. 

"But it fits," Leo went on quietly. "His sudden changes of attitude, his mood swings, his anger... He can't sleep, can't even relax..." 

C.J. was shaking her head in desperate denial. "This building is tighter than a bank vault. How could _anyone_ get in?" 

"Or anyTHING?" Toby added, volume rising. "They filter the water, they filter the air... they've got the seismographs for illicit tunneling and the Geiger counters for radiation... not to mention the best electronic security system in the WORLD!" 

"No." Leo sounded very certain of that. "It can't be something so general, or else all of us would be affected the same way." 

"Oh... right." Toby had to be terribly shaken; such conclusion-jumping was quite unnatural for him. 

"Something in his food?" Sam suggested quickly. 

This time Leo didn't have a reassuring rejection. "They're checking the kitchen stores and the staff. Still, we've always had tight strings down there. Poison is not a new idea." 

"In his meds!" Josh exclaimed. "Right at the lab - something's been introduced. Something designed to counteract the real thing." 

"Or," C.J. broke in, her voice pensive, "maybe something fell in by accident. Mistakes do happen. We're human." 

"They're checking that, too." Leo exhaled, looking worn out himself. "But the blood tests already showed nothing. The medical team is running some extra screens, just to be sure. If there's anything that shouldn't be there, they'll find it." 

"But will they know how to _fix_ it?" Josh whispered. 

Silence descended softly this time, and deepened, like the inexorable fall of snow trapping you in a remote wilderness with no shelter and no rescue. The horror grew in them all, one endless second after another. 

C.J. managed to break out of it first. "This is going to generate a witch hunt." 

The Chief of Staff nodded somberly. "Pretty much a sure thing." 

"Terrorists?" Sam wondered. "Foreign interests? Or maybe local talent instead? And do they want to kill him - or _blackmail_ him?" 

Leo frowned; obviously he hadn't considered that angle before. "Like a ransom demand? 'You give us what we want, and we'll give you the antidote'?" 

"Or does the President have a _personal_ enemy?" Josh raked both hands repeatedly across his head, scrubbing his hair into disarray that well suited the wild look in his eyes. 

"Someone on the inside?" Toby said, very softly. Even so, his low tone echoed like a cannon blast. 

Leo shook off the building miasma. "All right, enough. We can't go on mere supposition. The Secret Service is all over this. Leave it to them." 

"We can't hide it," C.J. stated with bald conviction. "Everyone in the White House already knows there's something in the wind. You don't blow off the sight of agents in every doorway, even here. We need something for the press _and_ the employees." 

"No one else beyond this room must know the real reason." Toby's words carried the same weight of utter certainty. 

Josh kept darting his eyes in all directions. "Everyone would instantly suspect everyone else." 

"Besides," Sam added, "it would tip off the perp, whether inside or not." 

"If there _is_ a perp," Leo pointed out firmly. "We don't know that yet." 

C.J. sighed. "So we bill it as a typical alarm, crash, whatever. God knows there have been enough of those; they don't even make the headlines anymore." 

"But if it _is_ poison -" Sam pressed, looking scared. 

"Then we'll have a feeding frenzy of the first order." She brushed her hair back behind one ear, a nervous mannerism. 

Toby stared at the floor, which was his favorite way to hide strong emotions. "Not just in the press, and not just in the public... but in Congress as well." 

"The Constitution!" Josh gasped. "The Twenty-fifth!" 

Leo pinned him with a sharp glare. "We don't _know_ if it's poison. Don't grasp at straws." Despite his efforts the panic was beginning right here, right now. 

"But if it _is_ -" Sam persisted... and this time he looked angry. 

The spark in his eye proved contagious. It spread, a fury consuming all else. A fury powered by the most loyal of hearts, and made more lethal still because these hearts had nowhere concrete to direct it. 

Fury is always preferable to panic. When you panic, you can't think at all. 

"Who _dares_ attack the United States?" Suddenly Josh was seething, fists clenched. 

"When we find whoever's responsible, I want to be there." Toby's vision became a black flame. 

"Nobody threatens _our_ President." Sam might have been the youngest in this circle, but that only meant that rage appeared the most out of place on his boyish features... and therefore the most visible. 

No less immune to this sudden, roaring inferno, C.J. still focused on the basics. She rose from her chair. "In the meantime, how can we help him? And what will happen if we _can't_ help him?" 

Again, that arresting silence closed in. 

Leo met their eyes, not letting any of them hide from the bitter facts. "I don't know." 

"I do." 

No child caught with a hand in the cookie jar, no safecracker trapped by a police officer's flashlight, no student cheating on a critical exam could have looked more instantly guilt-stricken than these five right this moment. They all froze... and then they all turned, slowly. To face the music. 

Considering the nature and spirit of this debate, it might seem inevitable that Jed Bartlet would have overheard at least part of it from next door. How long he had been standing on the threshold, unnoticed, no one else could say. His arms were crossed, like a disapproving father; his eyes were bright and sharp, calculating. 

"In fact, I know exactly what the problem is. All of you are spending way too much time these days worrying about little things. You're overburdening yourselves." 

His mouth quirked upwards. Hadn't this trusted inner circle been accusing him of the very same sin for days? 

No one smiled back. 

The President's own sense of irony passed. "The worst of it is, your paranoia is spreading. So I suppose it's up to the boss to straighten things out." 

No one moved. The gulf separating leader and followers loomed largely between them, as it rarely ever did in this White House. 

Bartlet unfolded his arms, easing the angry-supervisor look at least a bit. "You guys know that I started my run for this job fully expecting to lose. But the moment I realized I actually might win, that's when I started looking honestly at the danger factor. Of course I wouldn't have won without all of you. Now I certainly am not blaming you for any risk I've ended up running because I _am_ here, so don't go blaming yourselves." His iron tone made that an undeniable command. 

"I've long since accepted the reality. I'm the most popular political target in the world. This is a constant truth: that at any moment someone out there wants to kill me. It's happened before. It can easily happen again." 

He looked from face to face. "I detest the very thought of placing any of you in the firing line as well. But I utterly refuse to live in fear for myself." 

Now his brows lowered ominously. "Surely this House is one place where all of us are safe. I already have to put up with everyone watching me every minute of the day. I _don't_ want everyone checking everything I touch or consume. I will not be ruled by threats from my enemies _or_ the over-elaborate precautions from my own people - no matter how well intended. If I cower behind an ever-increasing wall of security, then I might as well quit, because I won't be able to do my job. I won't be able to lead. I won't be able to _live._ " 

Silence. There could be no doubt that he meant every word. 

"And even though I feel like a broken record - or a lobbyist - I'm going to repeat myself yet again: I'm _fine._ I'm not sick, I'm not hurt, I'm not under attack. _Okay?_ Log that away, _all_ of you." 

No one presumed to argue with The Man. Not now, in this mood. 

"Leo, tell Ron to stand down. If he gives you any resistance, send him to me." 

Leo held himself stiffly, but did not offer opposition. Clearly it would avail nothing. "Yes, sir." 

The President visually swept the room once more, then turned and vanished back into his own office. The door didn't quite _slam_ shut, but almost. 

Josh was the first to gasp, as though he'd forgotten how to breathe. Toby edged backwards until he could lean against the nearest wall. 

Sam wore a look of genuine pain. "I don't get it. Can't he see that we're doing this because we care?" 

"Normally, he would," C.J. stated quietly. 

Leo nodded. "Anyone else need convincing that something's still not right?" 

Four dour expressions agreed with him. 

"Okay. Keep your ears to the ground. Personally I also think Ron's on the wrong track, but I'll speak to him anyway. If he _is_ wrong, then we still have a major problem to solve." 

On that depressing note, the four senior staffers slowly filed out. 

Their Chief of Staff waited until he was alone before releasing a deep sigh of torturous pressure. He cast a long, bleak look at the closed door between him and his leader. Then he turned away from his desk, planted one hand on the windowsill and gazed unhappily out into the world.

* * *

They're still talking about me. I know it. Either on the other side of that door, or wherever else they've gone, they're still talking. They're still _planning._

What are they _saying?_

They mean well. They're worried about me because they really do care. God knows that's been my only ray of sunshine on some days around here. 

I _wish_ they'd get it through their heads that I'm fine. But for some reason they just can't! They're bound and determined to smother me. 

I will not be intimidated or harassed. Not by the killers outside my walls who think they have a good reason... or the killers in my own employ who have to follow me everywhere. Or the close associates who think they know best, when they don't. 

_I_ know best. And I'll be damned if I let anyone take that away from me. 


	8. Harbinger 8

**Harbinger**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** The President's health is breaking down at last - but what exactly is the cause?  
**Written:** Feb, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2002, between “Stirred” and “Enemies Foreign and Domestic 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 8 ~ 

Wednesday - late afternoon. 

By and large, the human brain is uncharted territory. This gooey three-pound organ of more than ten billion nerve endings remains a vast expanse of intracellular space, stubbornly resisting science's best efforts to fully explore and understand it. It processes information better than the most sophisticated computers. It guards the experiences, talents, sensations and emotions that combine to make up an absolutely unique individual in all of creation. 

Memories live here, like fish in the maze of a coral reef. They can loiter on the outskirts, their data available for use. They can retreat to such hidden depths that their very existence is forgotten. And they can emerge suddenly, unexpectedly - impossible to ignore. 

The Deputy Chief of Staff sat at his computer, studying its display in silent stillness. Whether his thoughts were on the information before him or light-years away, no observer could tell. 

Whichever they may be, a familiar masculine voice dispelled them. " _Wake up,_ Josh." 

Those three quiet words wrenched him about so fast he almost got whiplash. This was nearly an exact parallel to the President's sudden appearance in Leo's office not long ago. 

"How'd you get past Donna?" 

Leo's humor tended more towards the deadpan sardonic. "What - is she your gatekeeper? Come on." He waited for Josh to save his work, then led the way down the hall. 

They passed Donna's desk en route. "Thanks a lot," Josh called rather snidely. 

She had only a smile for him. "I'm not suicidal." 

"Yeah, right." He accelerated to keep up with his boss. "So, where are we going?" 

"The veteran photo op. I want to be there. But I also want to talk to you about the Gauthier thing." Leo headed out of the West Wing and into the White House proper. "Problem is, I'll probably get pulled out of this before it's done, and I won't be free again all afternoon." 

"Leaving you no choice but to subject me to military lectures." Josh kept his tone light; Leo was a veteran himself. "Okay, so talk." 

Compared to some other State Rooms, the Map Room is elegance scaled down. It made an appropriate setting for a military gathering in more ways than one. Leo and Josh entered quietly and moved to a back corner. The guests of honor had already arrived... as had the President. 

He was greeting each one personally. "A pleasure to meet you, Flight Commander. What a view you must've had up there. I always wanted to fly. Now let me see how fast I get these environments wrong - you're a naval lieutenant, right? Wow, I did it. What ship were you on? No kidding. And Chief, I hear you headed up a mobile hospital. I bet you were in the thick of it more than once. What a service. Glad you all could make it here today." 

Josh leaned towards his boss. "You've been coaching him." 

Leo didn't turn at this playful accusation, but a smile flickered across his face. "You spend enough years pounding facts into a guy, _something_ has to stick." He made it sound like he'd been Jed Bartlet's drill sergeant. 

Janet the photographer lingered politely to one side, watching as each guest was presented, but not taking pictures just yet. 

The President conducted the tour himself. "We call this the Map Room, even though we haven't kept maps here for decades. Typical White House logic. But can you imagine what a beehive it must've been during World War II? They conducted some serious strategy around these very tables. Makes me shiver just to think about it. We hauled out a collection of the original maps from those days, in case you're interested." 

The dozen or so former soldiers, sailors, airmen and army nurses, both men and women, seven with canes and two in wheelchairs, moved from chart to chart, pointing and exclaiming over various sites of battle that they remembered. Bartlet strolled with them, not intruding on their reminisces yet eager to talk about campaigns from an historical context at least. 

Leo listened in as well, even though he'd served in Vietnam instead. Still, any White House employee must learn to multi-task; at the same time he seized his chance to quietly discuss more current issues with Josh in the background. 

After several minutes of this, the White House official who had been drafted as tour guide started directing traffic for personal photos. The President retreated to one end of the room, away from the exhibits and, as it happened, not that far from his two observing staffers. Janet edged closer, camera ready. 

The first ancient warrior shuffled forward, wearing an old beret, medals clinking. His supreme leader was in a perfectly normal business suit with no insignia at all... just one more civilian enjoying today's benefits from past military sacrifices. They stood smiling side by side, each having accomplished great things, each very familiar with the burden that great accomplishments tended to extract. 

Then it happened. Janet took aim at them, her flash fired - and Bartlet flinched. 

She saw it through the viewfinder. Leo and Josh saw it from the side. The soldier beside him _felt_ it through the brush of their shoulders. The President reacted as though he'd been physically struck: body stiffening and eyes wincing. 

Janet lowered her camera. "Sir?" 

The soldier turned his head. "Sir?" 

Leo frowned. _"Sir?"_

The other veterans, meandering between tables, raised their heads together. 

From the far corners of the room, formerly invisible black suits snapped to full attention. 

For three full seconds Bartlet stood motionless and rigid, head turned aside, teeth clenched, eyes almost closed, the way most people wait for a sudden pain to subside. 

After the earlier theory of a possible internal assault, the Secret Service agents were more numerous and more jumpy than ever. Two glided forward to flank their protectee, alert for one wrong move from anyone. A third went to Janet and firmly extracted the camera, the only apparent weapon, from her astonished grasp. 

By now the entire room had stopped, and fallen strangely quiet. 

Then the President exhaled. His body relaxed; his head rotated forward again. His breath rate was perceptively faster than normal, but he seemed hale enough otherwise. He resembled a man recovering from no small shock. 

All at once he realized that everyone was staring at him in voiceless concern. Instantly he grabbed for the shield of self-control, fighting the surprise and the embarrassment, making a valiant effort to shake off whatever had so obviously jarred him. 

"Whoa. For one instant, that was _real._ " 

Confused stares reigned as the silent spectators tried to decipher what he meant. 

Bartlet focused on the veteran beside him, which made it easier to studiously avoid everyone else - in particular the bodyguards, Josh, and especially Leo. "Major, I can't tell you how much I respect you and your fellows for all you went through so long ago." Sincerity endorsed every word. "But in a way, here, just now, I could actually _feel_ it a bit." 

The explanation made sense; a burst of camera flash could easily resemble artillery fire. Or... _handgun_ fire? 

Then, typically, The Man fell back on his trademark humor, passing the whole thing off as unimportant. "I've got to curb this imagination of mine." 

The old soldier looked deeply touched by such empathy. "Mr. President, that's a very kind thing for you to say." 

"It's the very least _any_ of us can do for you." Bartlet spoke with dead seriousness now. "If everyone shared your understanding of what wars are really like, none of us would ever be so insane as to start them in the first place. And I'm not saying that as your Commander-in-Chief, but as a citizen." 

His smile returned. "But here, I'm wasting your time! Let's get some pictures." 

Janet looked very nervous. Her camera, the cause of executive discomfort, was still being examined by an obviously suspicious federal agent. "Are you sure, sir?" 

The President firmly waved aside all dissent. "I am not depriving these heroes of their right." He pointedly dismissed the bodyguards hovering around him. 

Silently, reluctantly, the agents obeyed. He did sound completely normal. The one who had confiscated the photographic components accepted that they were harmless after all, and returned them to their owner. 

Even so, Bartlet angled his posture a bit sideways so that the flash wouldn't hit him directly in the eyes again. It would have taken someone who really knew him, however, to perceive how he steeled himself against any recurring reflex. 

Two of his closest staff members stood mere yards away. 

If he experienced a lingering mortification, or anxiety, he masked it with chatter. "Tell me, Major, do you think there's anything to this racial memory theory? Some experts say that we can inherit shards of memory through our genes. I know some of my ancestors fought in the War of Independence. Who knows for sure?" 

Very carefully, no doubt mindful of her Secret Service audience as well, Janet pointed the camera again and slowly depressed the shutter. This flash could not have been any brighter than the one preceding, yet it _appeared_ brighter to everyone in the room. 

The President gave only the merest flinch this time, plainly braced for it... and did not flinch at all for the third. 

The major shook his head in both comprehension and wonder. "You're a brave man, sir." 

"Not compared to you." That was definitely not a brush-off. 

Janet had lost much of her professional confidence, though she kept her hands steady somehow. Her primary subject looked calm and relaxed once more... but the damp sheen on his forehead belied true comfort. 

For his part he kept the conversation going - no doubt to prevent a lull where less pleasant thoughts could intrude. Of course the topic under discussion was war, which certainly didn't help; it had to be giving his nerves a real workout. 

Josh couldn't tear his attention away. "Do you believe him?" he whispered sideways. 

Leo grunted, likewise not looking anywhere else. "About racial memory? Sure. I've seen it happen before, to people who suddenly 'remember' a skill they were never taught." 

"Not that - the other thing." 

The Chief of Staff's features were grave. "No." 

Josh hesitated, then spoke slowly. "You think maybe it was a flashback to the time he really _was_ shot?" 

Leo gave a very small shrug. "Could be. But then, we were all debating the odds of assassination just a little while ago. And once you start thinking about it, it's pretty hard to stop. Between that and this, it might have triggered something. Something buried deep." 

In the next pause, he turned. "Are _you_ okay?" 

Josh did appear just a tad pale. "Yeah..." He swallowed, his own fear showing. "But I'll tell you this: no way could I ever be President. How can he live with it, knowing it might happen again at any moment?" 

Leo laid a supportive hand on his deputy's shoulder. "Probably the same way these vets did, and the same way your father and I did: you face it head-on. You admit honestly to yourself that there's a real chance you're going to die, you accept it as inevitable, and that takes away the fear. Once you're no longer afraid, you can fight. Or lead." He sighed, remembering. "It also has a lot to do with your personal beliefs... and when you know you can rely absolutely on your comrades through the very worst." 

Josh drew himself up, clearly reassured. "Oh, well, in that case neither the President nor I have anything to worry about." 

Leo's rugged visage broke into a fond smile. 

Then motion on the other side of the room caught his attention: Margaret, waving discreetly. 

"I have to go." He cast one more worried glance towards their puzzling Chief Executive. His voice lowered confidentially. "Keep an eye on him, will you?" 

Josh nodded readily. "Sure thing." 

Bartlet was speaking with a non-commissioned officer, and giving every evidence of what was for him normal behavior. "You drove tanks? I remember the first time I inspected a tank on parade. I insisted on climbing up and looking down the bore of its gun. I figured that if I was ever going to order that thing to fire, I'd better know what it would be like for the person on the other end." He rolled his eyes. "That muzzle was almost as big around as my head! I pray nightly that I'll never be responsible for it being used." 

As usual, he captivated his audience. Despite having had no military experience, he'd hit the perfect note here today. 

And yet, he still didn't look straight at the camera... and when the flash happened to coincide with a quieter moment, he winced ever so slightly. 

Josh winced reflexively as well. 

At last the event was over, all photos taken, all necessary statements made. Janet lowered her camera with visible relief. The President thanked his guests warmly, waved, and made a gracious exit, looking both happy at this success and regretful at its ending. 

Josh followed at a little distance. He did not attempt to catch up and start a conversation with his leader, as he often did. In fact, he definitely preferred to keep his distance from The Man right this moment. And he wore an expression quite unlike his standard brash confidence: uncertain and introspective. 

When Bartlet neared the Oval Office, Josh peeled off. However, he didn't go to his own sanctum, but rather to a different one further down the hall. 

"What is it _now?_ " the voice within demanded irritably in response to Josh's knock. He took that as an invitation to enter. 

"Hey, Toby. Got a minute? I'd like to talk to you."

* * *

I can't get over this jumpiness. What right do I have to be so sensitive? Those former servicemen and women _really_ went under fire. 

Besides, how many thousands of times have I been photographed in the last two years alone? And this is right after I said I had nothing to fear inside the White House, too. 

Name one person who's followed by more cameras than I am. It's part of my existence now. 

This sort of thing had better not happen again.

* * *

Wednesday - evening. 

Forget that nonsensical self-sufficient doctrine about looking out for oneself and not being dependent upon anybody else. Humans are gregarious. Loneliness can crush the soul. Besides, like it or not, there will always be moments when your guard is down, when your body is weakened, when your need for help is undeniable. Even the toughest street fighter and the most ardent misogynist cannot go forever without companionship - or without sleep. 

As a result, it is imperative not just to look after yourself, but also to look after others. Whether you rely upon them or they are relying upon you, protecting them safeguards that essential need for company, security... survival. 

Whenever the Chief of Staff was present in the White House, it was Margaret's business to know his location at all times. In this case she stuck her head around the doorframe of his silent office, just to be sure, then withdrew. Two seconds later, Charlie walked in. 

"Excuse me?" 

At his desk, Leo spared the briefest glance from his current report. "Yeah." Then suddenly recognition kicked in. His head jerked up and _stayed_ up. "Charlie?" Suspicion flooded his face at once. "What is it?" The personal aide to the President never paid social calls. 

The young man shifted feet somewhat, a sure sign of unease. "Well, you see... we have this situation." 

That cryptic statement contained a lot of meaning. Leo reached up to slowly remove his glasses with an air of helpless resignation. "He's still slogging away, right?" 

Charlie nodded, just as resigned. "He's dead tired. He can hardly hold his head up anymore. But he won't quit." 

Leo sat back with a sigh, tossing his spectacles onto his paperwork in frustration. "He won't listen to you; hell, he won't listen to the First Lady. Why should he listen to _me?_ Especially since he hasn't all week!" 

Something flashed in Charlie's deep eyes. "Want me to hold him down while you pound some sense into him?" 

Leo couldn't prevent a grin. "Don't let anyone else hear you say that - but I'd love to take you up on it. At least that would be a release to _our_ frustrations." He rose solemnly, all humor evaporating in an instant. "Sooner or later he's _got_ to pack it in. No man can go on like this forever. Guess it's up to us to make it sooner." 

"I suggested that he let me help him finish up so he could call it a night. The stuff on his desk isn't that critical right now." Charlie shuffled again. "It didn't go over too big." 

"Big surprise there." Leo turned his head towards the wall, as though he might find inspiration there. Then he looked down, evidently coming to a decision. 

"Maybe what we need is a flanking maneuver by superior numbers." He straightened, a general rallying the troops. "Could you see if Mrs. Bartlet is available to come down?" 

This time it was the body man who grinned - in what had to be anticipation. "You got it." 

Leo waited until he left, then grimly headed for the paneled door between him and a President bent on self-destruction. 

Hinges in this House are not allowed to creak. Leo paused just inside, and had several moments of unnoticed observation. Bartlet sat at his desk, alone, ever at work. 

Exhaustion hung over him like a pall. He leaned heavily forward, head supported by one hand. His sleeves were sloppily rolled up and his tie hung loose, an aberration to his usual deep respect for this historic chamber. A lock of hair hung over his sweated brow, adding to the general image of disarray. His pen moved over the paper with painful slowness, one torturous word after another. He kept rubbing his eyes, stretching his back and squinting at words. He looked like he'd been at it nonstop for decades. 

And yet, he seemed incapable of letting up, even for short periods. Where any rational person would walk away, in order to return later refreshed and more productive, where usually this man as well knew better, still he relentlessly pressed onward. 

The job of leading any nation is hard; no one could dispute that. But not even the leader of the free world should have it _this_ hard. Leo shook his head in near-despair. 

Then his lips tightened with determination. 

"Mr. President?" 

Bartlet didn't even turn his head, as though that small motion was beyond his endurance now. "Yeah?" 

"I've got an important bulletin for you." Leo walked over, exactly as always. 

The Man barely reacted. This could be an international crisis or a municipal parking problem for all the interest he displayed. "Let's hear it." 

"In all of our history, we have never had a President commit suicide." Leo paused for one deliberate beat. "Until now." 

Bartlet paused as well, his thought processes painfully sluggish. Then his head lifted and he peered at his right-hand man from under weighted lids. "What?" 

The fact that he either didn't grasp the connection or simply couldn't find the energy to toss off a joke in return veered drastically from the norm. 

Leo stopped directly in front of the executive desk and glared down at his leader and friend. "You're killing yourself, pure and simple." 

"No, I'm not. Leave me alone." These words contained no strength, no authority at all. They came out solely by rote. 

"If I did, I'd be an accessory before the fact." Leo exhaled in genuine anger. "You need to sleep." 

"I _can't_ sleep. So I might as well work. Use my time productively." The President gazed dully at the briefs spread out before him. 

" _Productively?_ Look at you! You're so beat you can't think straight. You won't do the nation one lick of good in this shape!" 

Bartlet might have been too tired to admit to the reasonableness of this fact - but he wasn't so tired that he couldn't rise to the defensive in a hurry. Bleary or not, his blue eyes grew cold. "And just what is _that_ supposed to mean?" 

Leo hesitated. Obviously he'd crossed some invisible yet critical demarcation line. Nothing new about that; he pushed barriers here all the time. His job demanded absolute frankness despite protocol, deference or the desire to shield a friend. The executive retaliation to crossing _this_ line, however, proved uncharacteristically violent. 

Wisely, the Chief of Staff appeared to surrender. His direct approach hadn't worked, demanding an alternative strategy. "Have it your way. I'll stop trying to tell you how to manage yourself." 

Bartlet exhaled, sounding exactly like a child being scolded by a parent. "I'll turn in soon, okay?" 

"No, you won't, and we both know it." Leo was getting that crafty look. Fortunately, his boss failed to notice. "But at least let me help you go through some of this mess." 

The propane flame faded somewhat. The President was simply too drained to stand on his dignity, even in the face of such bluntness. That alone comprised a danger sign. 

He took off his glasses, dropped them on his blotter, and dug the heels of both hands into his eyes. "If I do, will you get off my back?" 

"For the moment only. Come on. You can use a break, even from _that_ chair. Let's move to the couch. It'll be easier to talk anyway." 

Bartlet leaned back in his leather throne, almost possessively. "I _like_ this chair." 

"You'll like a change, too. Let's go." Without waiting for permission or even acquiescence, Leo started gathering up papers from the desktop. He sorted through them as he strolled towards the two couches, virtually forcing his friend to follow. 

With a groan, the President heaved himself up, stretched a bit, and practically stumbled after his moving workload. "All right, already. Let's get on with it." He sank into the soft cushions, unable to prevent a sigh of relief, massaged the bridge of his nose, reached for his shirt pocket - and then slumped, empty-handed. "Damn. Hand me my glasses, will you?" 

Leo made no such effort. Had he noted that omission and purposefully not mentioned it? "Never mind, I'll read the first one to you. Give your eyes a rest." He claimed a seat on the other sofa, which incidentally made it harder for his boss to insist upon him playing fetch. Selecting a memo, he placed it on top of the stack he held and obtained his own spectacles, leaving the most powerful man in the world little alternative but to lean back and listen. 

"I should've thought of this years ago." Bartlet crossed his arms and did his best to look like he was enjoying such service, but he only succeeded in looking obstinate. 

"Well, now you know for the future." Leo cleared his throat. "This is the biannual memo on pasture re-zoning." 

This time the President's groan expressed not exertion but exasperation. "Aw, man, did you deliberately pick _the_ most boring page in that entire pile?" 

"Then the sooner we deal with it, the sooner you can throw it out," Leo said soothingly. He did not, however, deny that accusation outright. 

"'From Russ Fotenhauer, Secretary of Agriculture to the one hundred and seventh Congress of the United States of America, to President Josiah Bartlet, on this day -'" 

Bartlet's eyes closed and his head fell back against the couch's padded upper edge. "For God's sake, Leo, cut to the quick! There's not a memo in the history of this office that doesn't start the exact same way!" 

"I'm _getting_ to it. I didn't want to skip anything and get chewed out for _that._ " Leo's voice slowed down and leveled out, becoming quiet and even... almost a monotone. 

"'Subject: national pasture re-zoning with regard to sheep versus cattle. Several areas must be re-zoned this year because of changes in the sheep population. 

"'In zone A3.6, the persistent use of an airborne pesticide last year caused a massive decrease in sheep population, from 350,000 to only about 200,000. 

"'In zone A5.3, a substantial reduction in the cattle population has triggered a corresponding increase in sheep numbers, due in large part to the threat of foot and mouth disease in Europe and the very real possibility of Creutzfeld-Jacob or "mad cow" disease outbreaks in American beef. 

"'In zone A6.1...'" 

At this point, Leo happened to glance at the couch, and his words dropped off completely. The President of the United States still sat upright on his couch across the carpet, arms folded, his head reclined and his eyes closed... his body relaxed, his features slack, his breathing deep and regular, as each of these factors had not been for far too long. 

After all the advice that had come to naught, all the genuine and deep-rooted concern, all the surreptitious plotting behind his back, this most stubborn of men had finally been tricked into obeying his desperate need for sleep. Tricked by his own desire to work at all costs. 

Tricked by his own second-in-command. 

Leo waited several more silent heartbeats, just to be sure... then he let out a long, quiet exhalation of overriding relief - and success. 

"High time," he muttered quietly. "That memo was about to put _me_ to sleep." 

Just as he softly set down the papers and rose, the door behind him whispered open. The door to his office. 

"Leo?" Charlie had taken in the scene at a glance; he spoke barely loud enough to be heard from ten feet away. 

Leo used the same low volume. "She's here? Good." He moved away from their slumbering Commander-in-Chief. "Tell everyone outside to keep it down, okay? Then come back in; we're going to need you." 

The young man nodded and left. In a moment Abbey had taken his place. 

She, too, deciphered recent events at once. "You did it." 

"Yeah." Leo met her near the back of the now-empty couch. 

"What's your secret?" she asked, in both gratitude and mild envy. 

"I forced him to count sheep." 

Abbey didn't press for details. "Well, whatever works." She rested both hands on the top edge of the sofa and stood there, studying her husband. Leo mirrored this pose on her right. 

There's just something about observing someone you care about while they sleep. It brings out all your affectionate and protective instincts. 

At length the First Lady sighed. "He looks pale. Physically worn. And has he lost weight?" 

"It's not unlikely. He hasn't stopped for anything these days." 

Charlie returned quietly through the Chief of Staff's door, closed it, and assumed a position of silent guard near the wall. 

Abbey's hands moved in an impotent gesture. "We've got proof now that his prescriptions haven't been tampered with. And there are no detectable poisons at all in his system." She paused. "But what about _un_ detectable ones?" 

"There's nothing our people can't find. At least now we know for sure that isn't the cause." 

She fidgeted. "So we're back to square one? Leo, I don't admit this easily, but I have no earthly idea what to do next." 

"I know how you feel." Leo looked down. "You think maybe we've been overreacting after all? It's a pretty hectic time, he's got more work to do than ever, and we're falling all over him trying to help. I wonder now if we haven't been adding to the tension instead." 

Abbey threw him a sharp look. "Don't try to take the blame yourself. Something is not right. You've felt it, and I certainly can." 

"Me too," Charlie volunteered quietly from behind them. 

They both turned. It would not normally be this personal aide's place to contribute to such a private and delicate discussion - but no one could question his loyalty to the man around whom all of their lives centered. 

Abbey managed a wan smile. "I never doubted, Charlie. Between the three of us, we're going to figure this out. And then..." 

Her voice stayed subdued, but a hard edge crept into it. "Then, we're going to deal with it. I don't care how many walls we encounter, whether real or political or metaphorical. Or presidential." She smiled, but it was more like the baring of teeth. "We're going to protect my husband from the world, and we're going to protect him from himself." 

Charlie stepped forward, a soldier presenting arms. "Yes, ma'am." 

Leo offered a dangerous smile of his own. "Yes, _ma'am._ " 

This trio in full combat mode would make a formidable combination indeed. Any opposition, from evil or from government, or from Jed Bartlet himself, didn't stand a chance. 

Abbey accepted her companions' offer of help with a grateful nod. Then her gaze swung back to the fourth occupant of this room... the one oblivious to it all. 

She sighed again. 

"Come on. Let's get him upstairs."

* * *

What? Wait a minute. Where the hell am I? 

Bed. I'm in bed. How did I get in bed? I was in the Office... 

Leo. 

Damn it, I refuse to be manipulated like this. Even by people who care about me. I'm FINE! And I'm going to prove it. 

I've _got_ to prove it. This nation needs a strong leader. I won't give the people any reason to doubt me, _ever again._


	9. Harbinger 9

**Harbinger**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** The President's health is breaking down at last - but what exactly is the cause?  
**Written:** Feb, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2002, between “Stirred” and “Enemies Foreign and Domestic 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 9 ~ 

Thursday - morning. 

For major politicians, for sport stars, for movie stars, for music stars, for anyone who stands in the spotlight of the public eye, there is an old and virtually unanswerable question about how much safety they can expect to have. Fame is tonic for one's ego, but murder to one's privacy. While you naturally don't want to be stalked by a killer, you don't want to be mobbed by fans either. 

Benjamin Franklin had a lot to say about how one can surrender too much personal liberty for the sake of temporary security, and that doesn't apply exclusively to the national level. There is a point where the forces of security become a physical threat - a threat equal to the danger they are supposed to prevent. 

Charlie was one of a very select few who did not need to knock on the door to the Oval Office. His job required knowing the President's whereabouts, whom he was with, who was scheduled to visit, who could be admitted without appointment, and when - or whether - he could receive anyone. This was the Chief Executive's first line of defense. 

The personal aide opened that sacred portal and entered two steps. "Mr. President?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Ainsley Hayes." 

"Right." 

Retreating back into reception, Charlie held the door open for the White House Deputy Counsel to enter, then closed it behind her. 

She stood just inside, hugging her note binder to her chest, eyes big... as though afraid that, if she so much as disturbed the carpet, she'd be committing an unpardonable crime. 

Bartlet sat at his desk, pen moving rapidly, his attitude shrieking of concentration and import. He paused once to peer briefly at her over his glasses. "Ainsley. Hi." 

She struggled to nod at least, and didn't quite pull it off. "Mr. President." 

"Come on over and have a seat. I'll just be a minute." He turned back to his work. 

One cautious step at a time, Ainsley approached. On either side of the executive desk stood a comfortable wooden armchair, facing the tall windows and the streaming sunshine. Had she not been so ordered, she never would have dared, but she chose the nearer one and very quietly seated herself. She was only two feet from her Commander-in-Chief. 

When you're waiting for someone to complete a task before he or she can speak with you, it feels very impolite just to watch. However, Ainsley couldn't tear her vision away. When a few moments later he shoved the report aside and pivoted towards her, she quickly sat back in some embarrassment. 

"Thanks for coming." 

"Oh, my pleasure, sir." She struggled not to stammer, not to appear flustered, not to act like an idiot in front of him as she had more than once in the past. Some further comment seemed required of her. "Um, how are you?" 

Surprisingly, he did not take that simple query in the light of normal conversation - or even as an attempt at normal conversation from someone in the throes of acute nervousness. His already dark expression grew black; his voice became frigid. "You can tell whoever asks _you_ how I am that I'm great. I got a fair night's sleep, thanks to some underhanded maneuverings behind my back, and I'm sick and tired of being patronized by everyone." 

Ainsley shrank away from this tirade, her almost painful awe transforming into sheer fright. In one more instant she'd be fleeing the room. "S-sorry. I was just asking..." 

The President paused in surprise; her reaction had been not of guilt but of _fear._ Perhaps she wasn't in on the recent staff trend after all. 

He turned away, looking guilty himself, anger dissipated. "No, _I'm_ sorry. I shouldn't take my bad mood out on you." 

Slowly, she dared to breathe again. The Oval Office would strain anyone; he should be cut a little slack. "It's okay, sir." 

"No, it isn't, and I'll try not to do it again." Bartlet exhaled, fighting for control, dragging himself back on track. Ainsley waited, with no small apprehension. 

"Now, then. I've got a question for you. And I don't want Oliver to know about it. Or anyone else, for that matter." 

Apprehension bloomed into astonishment. He preferred her help - an avowed member of the enemy party - to his own closest supporters? What in God's name could be so secret? 

The President wasted no more time; he must have considered his course of discussion well in advance. "Remember a little altercation at the Newseum a couple of years ago? Just across the river from here?" 

Ainsley hesitated, not in doubt but in confusion. "Of course, sir." A huge percentage of the world populous had been glued to the TV coverage for several hours straight. 

"Well, what most people don't know, or don't remember, is that for about three hours that night I was in no shape to make decisions of any kind." He made this comment casually, as though it had taken place a lifetime ago to someone long since out of the picture. "Which means that this nation was effectively without a Commander-in-Chief, coincidentally at the same time that the Iraqis decided to practice some invasion tactics." 

Ainsley's legal training and acumen warred against her hearing and her disbelief. "You mean there was a breakdown in the executive hierarchy?" 

"Oh, yeah." Bartlet refused to go into further detail; his lips tightened in distaste before he went on. "The Twenty-fifth Amendment was drawn up for just such an occasion as that, and we managed to flub it anyway. Besides, there are a few circumstances where the guidelines would still be rather vague." 

"No legislation can predict every contingency and block every loophole, sir," she hastened to say, scrambling for some semblance of familiar ground. 

"I know that." 

The Man paused, almost bracing for his next revelation. "Ever since Rosslyn, there's been a certain letter in a secret file. A letter, prepared and signed ahead of time, that would hand executive control to the Vice President in a similar emergency... or, in a comparable one." He got those words out somehow, yet a building rage echoed in the background. 

Ainsley just watched him, eyes wide. 

This time he didn't look at her. "I remember how I felt when I signed it. I _had_ to sign it: for my sake, for the Vice President's sake, and for the nation's sake." He spoke through gritted teeth. "Even so, I felt like I was signing away control of my administration. My _life._ And I vowed to myself to make sure that letter would never be needed." 

His mouth tightened even further. "It's a safety net, and a threat, and an _insult._ Besides, if it ever got into the wrong hands..." 

For several additional seconds, Ainsley did not speak - as though she didn't trust her voice to stay level. 

"Mr. President, I can only guess at the kinds of stress that comes with your job. But is there a specific reason why the existence of this letter is bothering you so much right now?" 

"Yes." That admission cost Bartlet dearly. "Before you feel compelled to ask, at the moment I'm not ill. But a lot of people seem to think I am. Everyone's hovering around me these days. Watching every move I make. Like they're afraid of something." 

Ainsley did not have much regular contact with senior staff members or their closer support staff, much less the Chief Executive himself. Even so, she had no trouble making the connection. "Afraid... you might _become_ ill?" 

He stared into the distance, scowling at persons unknown. "Whatever they're expecting, it isn't going to happen. But just knowing that letter exists is bothersome." He exhaled slowly. "It's a threat - a weapon, just waiting to be used against me." 

"The sword of Damocles." 

The President exhibited faint surprise at this unexpected scholarly knowledge. "Precisely." 

Rising, he wandered over to his windows and stared out into the early morning sun for a long moment, his features carefully guarded. Then, as though having recalculated his options and reassured himself that the earlier decision to consult with a lawyer was indeed valid, he returned to his chair and fastened his sharp vision on the attorney he had chosen to trust. 

"I want to know, constitutionally, exactly what kind of situation I'm in. I need to know what measures would be needed to invoke that letter - or any other like-minded action. I need an unbiased opinion." 

Now Ainsley looked worried. This was beyond delicate: a political matter, a constitutional matter, and a personal matter all in one. Even her earlier interview with the First Lady had not been so laden with import. 

Abbey had displayed anxiety for obvious reasons. This, though, was agitation of a very different sort. 

The Deputy Counsel steeled herself. "I shall certainly do my best, sir." 

Relief glinted in those blue eyes. "Good. Now talk to me." 

* * *

Have I done the right thing? Now my own legal advisor knows there's a potential problem - and soon the whole White House will know that I've spoken to her. No points for them guessing the reason why. 

The next thing you know, someone will accuse me of consorting with the enemy! 

Okay, enough jokes. This is serious. If someone else even _thinks_ about that letter... 

I'll just have to make sure they don't - and the best way is to show everyone that I'm up to my work. I won't give anybody reason to lose confidence in my fitness or my decision-making. I've got a few good years left in me yet!

* * *

Dreams are an inevitable and essential attribute to any sentient brain. In sleep the subconscious is loosed of the chains imposed upon it by wakefulness. However unnerving this may sound to those who strive to excel in self-control, and however powerful or even unpleasant some dreams can be, it is a physiological necessity. Those who are sleep-deprived for an extended period suffer not just physical and emotional exhaustion, but also progressive psychosis and eventually mental disintegration. A vivid dream or two is a small price to pay. 

But if one is forced to choose between these two unenviable extremes... 

The First Lady's office is hardly the _Oval_ Office, but it can hum with the same high energy levels. However cutthroat a life of politics might be, the world of social climbers and fashion trendsetters will match it. The wife of the President has a very definite and effective role to play in the upper echelons of American society. 

When Lilli Mayes stepped onto the threshold, the quiet within was unexpected. And noticeable. 

"Ma'am?" 

Seated at her desk, Abbey gave every appearance of intense focus on the paper before her. Yet again there was this unusual silence. 

"Mrs. Bartlet?" 

This time she looked up, somewhat embarrassed. That distinct note of repetition told her she'd been oblivious to a previous greeting. "I'm sorry, Lilli. Yes?" 

"Is something the matter?" 

"No," Abbey stated at once... a bit too quickly. 

Her Chief of Staff hesitated, but you don't argue with any Bartlet using that tone. She turned to go - 

"All right, yes." The First Lady sighed and gave up pretending. "Have you got a minute?" 

"Of course." Lilli took the initiative of shutting the office door, then selected the closest chair and gave her boss her full attention. 

Abbey leaned back, her expression shifting between concern and... almost loneliness. "It might do me some good to talk about it. And I don't have many close friends anymore." 

Lilli responded to both the compliment and the subtle directive. "Thank you, ma'am. I assure you this won't go beyond me." 

"I know that." 

It did not take a professional psychiatrist to guess at the source of Abbey's concern. Only her husband could distract her so. 

"I don't know if the grapevine has picked up any vibrations about last night." 

"Last night, here? Not to my knowledge." 

"Well, thank God for the private promenade between the Oval Office and the Residence." Abbey exhaled. "I'm sure you do know that the President has been working harder than usual of late." 

Lilli hesitated again, but this was a time for utter frankness. "Yes, that has been commented upon once or twice." 

Abbey closed her eyes and shook her head. "I figured as much. He's becoming rather compulsive about it. Anyway, about last night: suffice to say that he was so tired he had to be physically helped upstairs." 

Lilli blinked in clear surprise, but said nothing. 

"For the first few hours, he slept like the dead." Abbey winced automatically at her accidental choice of words, then continued. "I can't guess when he last had a proper night. Then, when he did wake up, I almost had to chain him to the bedpost to keep him from heading back to work." Her eyes flashed - first amusement, then anger. "He certainly needed more than four hours after days with next to none." 

Again Lilli reserved comment, though she looked increasingly grave. 

"He finally got it through his head that it was a losing argument... and he dropped off again before too long. But even so, I was reluctant to sleep myself after that. I feared that he'd try to sneak out if he thought I _was_ asleep." 

Abbey turned to the window and the brilliant daylight beyond. "Because of this precaution, I knew when he developed a nightmare." 

She paused. "He'd be furious if he knew I was discussing this with anyone else. And normally I wouldn't." 

Lilli shifted in some discomfort. "It does help to talk about these things." 

Abbey nodded her gratitude. "That's my feeling, too. In particular at times like this. Besides, he _won't_ discuss it." Her deep brown eyes faded out of focus and her forehead developed sharp worry lines as she remembered. "It wasn't the wild and screaming sort, but terror just poured out of him. I am so thankful that I was right there to bring him out of it as fast as possible." 

Lilli maintained a discreet silence. 

"Of course he tried to play it down, and mask the effects." Abbey was struggling to keep her voice level and dispassionate, striving to maintain a doctor's reserve. "But the human body doesn't just shake off that kind of stress in an instant - especially not someone already in poor physical, emotional or psychological shape. I'm sure that nightmare wouldn't have gotten to him so much if he'd been better rested. His dream cycle must be totally out of whack by now, which in turn is letting his suppressed subconscious run riot. Not to mention the fact that any good he might have derived from the first half of the night was pretty much nullified by the second." 

"I'm sorry," was all Lilli could think to say. 

Abbey attempted to shrug it off. "Since the last election, Jed and I have spent far more nights apart than the average couple; if he's not traveling, I usually am. But never in our lives together have I ever known him to have a dream like that one - and I'd remember if he had." She let out a long breath. "Now I'm more worried about him than ever." 

Silence grew between them. Lilli opened her mouth twice, and closed it again, before she finally decided to take the plunge. 

"Abbey, you're a doctor. Not _was,_ ARE." The First Lady turned back, riveted both by that credit and by the very unusual usage of her given name. "You know that physical ailments can affect a person's behavior, emotions, even the mind. You also know that psychological difficulties can affect the body. And I'm sure you know that I'd do anything to help you and the President. But I'm afraid I have no advice to offer. I've got no clue what's causing this. I wish I did." The East Wing Chief of Staff lowered her gaze, almost in defeat. 

Silence again. 

Then Abbey leaned forward, hands on her desk... and smiled. 

"It's okay, Lilli. We'll solve this, and soon. In the meantime, I really appreciate your help. And you've _been_ a help, too. What you've given me is support. The support of a trusted friend is a great thing indeed."

* * *

Thursday - early afternoon. 

Even under the most ideal legal circumstances, justice cannot be guaranteed. Trial by jury was designed to reduce the risk of error as much as possible, rather than place the final decision upon one person who might not have a very unbiased viewpoint or all of the facts. The thing is, both judges and juries are made up of people... and no one is infallible. 

Besides being a frightful possibility, injustice must be one of the most spiritually horrendous experiences a person can undergo. There is neither glory nor pleasure in playing a scapegoat; you want to scream at the world for refusing to believe you. And if that injustice has been risked for more selfless reasons, then the pain factor goes through the roof. 

C.J. walked briskly into reception outside the Oval Office, head up and stride confident. 

"Hi, Ruth." The executive secretary nodded to her. "Charlie." The personal aide swiveled his chair. "You called." 

"Actually, _he_ did," Charlie corrected her, as though that detail hadn't gone without saying. He nodded towards the closed white door. "Go on in." 

Something about his sheer lack of expression gave the Press Secretary pause. Some of the strength of her posture drained away. 

When she entered, any unease or misgivings were well hidden. "Mr. President." 

Surrounded by paperwork like always these days, he didn't honor her with so much as a glance at first. "There she is." 

"Yes, sir." C.J. approached the desk. "What may I do for you today?" 

"I'm not sure." Bartlet said that almost as though he couldn't remember why he'd wanted to see her in the first place. "But I do know what you _can't_ do for me." And still he didn't look up from his writing. 

She frowned in confusion, and in sudden anxiety. "Sir? Is something wrong?" Something with _him?_

"Not anymore. But I had to speak with the White House Social Director to be sure of it." 

C.J. froze. 

Now the President raised his head, slowly, and fastened his eyes on her. Anger burned in their blue depths. 

She flushed and looked down, very much the chastened little girl. "Oh." 

"Quite." The executive pen descended onto the blotter with an ominous sound for all its faintness. "And now I'm speaking to _you._ " He sat back, yet did not rise. 

C.J. gathered her nerve and straightened. Denying her guilt would be futile. "Yes, sir." 

"I was suspicious at the way next week's schedule seemed so much lighter than usual, but it took awhile for me to make the connection. Patti wasn't any too cooperative, either." 

"Sir -" 

"When I finally _did_ get the truth out of her, she admitted that it was your initiative." 

"It was, sir. I took it upon myself to ease your workload." Guilty though she was, C.J. did not display the least regret. 

"Well, I'm all for my staff showing initiative. Normally it _does_ make my job easier." The anger flared a bit higher. "But I'm giving you fair warning: don't ever try to handle me again. I don't care if it _is_ with good intentions." 

For a moment, C.J.'s eyes narrowed in return. "Do you feel you have to threaten me to gain my compliance?" 

"If that's what it takes. Just promise me you'll never to do it again. Simple." The President turned back to his work, confident that the matter had been sufficiently addressed, because of course a promise would immediately be made to that effect. 

She considered it. "I'm afraid I can't do that, sir." 

Slowly, darkly, his vision lifted again. 

She stood by her conviction. "I refuse to lie to my President." 

So much for any chance of that anger dying out. "I think I have a little more experience in this thing called life than you do. Any of you, in fact. And I certainly have more experience in what it means to be _me._ " 

"And what it means to be President," C.J. added in a lower, thoughtful tone. 

"What?" he said sharply. 

Weakly, she tried to regroup. "I was just differentiating between the man and the... Never mind. No one's disputing your experience and your skill, sir. But even the smartest people can be fooled." She hesitated, then went for broke. "Or can fool themselves." 

When Jed Bartlet raised his voice, you knew he was mad. "How many times do I have to say this? I'M FINE!" 

"No, sir, you're NOT!" C.J. matched him, angry enough herself not to back down even before her supreme commander. 

Curiously, he didn't attempt to out-shout her. Rage from the Press Secretary was rare enough to jar him, to force him to think the moment through. 

Even so, he didn't surrender any ground. "You can get off my case any time now." 

Suddenly C.J. ran out of patience. She had known her clandestine efforts might be found out, but she must have expected a less scathing reprimand than this. President or not, he refused to see sense. Her concern and loyalty and frustration fused together. "Well, excuse me for caring so much about you that I tried to help!" 

Rather than match her volume, Bartlet dropped to a dangerous rumble. "That is all." 

Without another word, radiating anguish in almost visible waves, she spun on her heel and headed for the door. 

One hand clamped on the doorknob - and she paused, then turned back. 

"Trish." 

The President's simmering annoyance segued into bewilderment. "What?" 

"The White House Social Director. Her name is Trish. She's never dared to correct you." C.J. drew a strained breath. "But we all need correcting once in a while." 

She twisted away and exited before she could see the result of _that_ little speech. 

She shut that office door with a bit of a bang - one door that should _never_ be slammed - and marched double-time through reception, not meeting the eye of anyone else. 

She charged down the corridor for several yards at a fast pace, features twitching from a turmoil of emotions. Then, at a reasonably quiet spot, she stopped and leaned against a wall. 

She was trembling. 

She brushed one hand across her forehead, breathed carefully, and fought for self-control. 

At length some new resolution took shape, her features firmed, and she started walking again. But this time it was more of a pursuit towards something rather than a flight from some _one._

She had to search three other halls before she spotted him. 

"Toby! Come with me. I need to talk to you."

* * *

How dare she treat me like a child! 

Aw, hell, I was way too hard on her. She really does care. C.J. Cregg would never lose her temper otherwise. Especially not with me. 

Damned if I don't feel like I've been bawled out by Elizabeth, for getting on _her_ case. Come to think of it, that's a pretty close comparison. 

Guess I'd better apologize, and soon. I can't have an angry Press Secretary vent in front of the cameras. 

No, C.J. wouldn't do that. She's the consummate professional. But just the fact that she's angry at me is unpleasant enough. In fact, she's _furious;_ normally she'd be the last person to resort to a cheap shot like that. 

She's angry - because she cares. 

They _all_ care. That's a huge compliment, and an even bigger source of comfort: that my closest advisors are willing to risk pissing their leader off if they honestly think it'll help. 

I just wish they'd let up. I don't need baby-sitting. This _is_ pissing me off. A lot. 


	10. Harbinger 10

**Harbinger**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** The President's health is breaking down at last - but what exactly is the cause?  
**Written:** Feb, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2002, between “Stirred” and “Enemies Foreign and Domestic 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 10 ~ 

Thursday - late afternoon. 

For anyone in a position of power, an heir can be an unintended yet undeniable threat. Every hierarchy must have a runner-up to the top position, a trained successor right at hand, in case the boss collapses... or does something stupid. In a monarchy, the sovereign and the heir are in an especially peculiar relationship: both know that the heir is spending his or her entire life waiting for the sovereign to die. The sovereign has the responsibility of training the next generation for a sacred trust; the heir has the burden of upholding an ancient legacy before an entire nation. Then throw in the added complication that they are usually parent and child. 

In a more corporate organization, such as government, the heir is in a less personal yet even more tenuous position, never knowing _if_ he or she will ascend to the virtual throne before someone else is appointed (or elected) to take his or her place. And never knowing, too, whether ascension will be due to death, resignation - or some other less permanent cause that will force him or her to hand back the coveted reins of power all too soon. 

"Yes, Warren, I'm listening to you." Leo had his phone speaker on while he flipped pages and jotted notes. "But if you can't hold my attention, then maybe you need to redefine your approach." He checked his watch. "You have two minutes." 

Motion on his peripheral vision turned out to be Margaret in the office doorway, trying to catch his eye. "Oh, what _now?_ " he snapped, not caring what the man on the other end of the line thought about this peevish demand. 

She stepped back. Had that been in discomfort at his sharpness now, or in anticipation of the discomfort to come? "The Vice President." 

Her boss jerked his head up. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. 

"Oh, God." The implications could not be dodged here. "Warren, looks like your two minutes are up. I'll call you back." He disconnected the call without waiting for an acknowledgment. For her part, Margaret needed no further cue to show his visitor in. 

By the time the boyishly handsome John Hoynes entered, Leo had gained his feet. 

"Good afternoon. Mr. Vice President." There was little warmth in his eyes, however. 

"Leo. Forgive me for stopping by unannounced. I should have called ahead." 

"No problem - I hope." Nothing in the Chief of Staff's voice implied sarcasm or suspicion. And yet... "What's going down?" He gestured towards his selection of seats. 

"Not a whole lot. I just thought I'd run an idea or two past you." Hoynes was keeping it casual; deceptively so. If anything, that would buzz Leo's radar even more. 

They sat down facing each other in this comfortable office, but neither could pretend to be fully relaxed. The Vice President was not the most welcome visitor around here. These two men almost constantly waged a covert battle for power. Despite the calm appearance of both, tension gained substance and steadily increased. 

Leo broke the silence first. Technically, he held the home court advantage. "Well?" 

Hoynes hesitated one more heartbeat, then leaned forward a bit. That in itself warned of the seriousness to come. 

"Well... there's been this faint little whisper in the air that the President is not as healthy as he should be." 

Despite even C.J.'s high talent, no secret can hide for long inside the White House. 

Leo never twitched, his face set in stone. 

Hoynes opened his hands encouragingly. "I thought I'd come see for myself, so I can help put the rumors to rest." 

Now Leo exhaled, which made it look like he was deflating under this subtle attack. "I really wish you'd called instead. This is the worst time for a visit that I can think of. The President is in a _mood._ " 

A pause developed, and lengthened, as Hoynes nodded solemnly. A hypothesis of his own would appear to have been confirmed. 

"What's wrong?" 

"He's working longer hours than usual. He's a little tired." Leo knew when to play his cards close. 

Hoynes knew when to call a bluff. "Leo..." 

"Okay, he's stressed. The election's coming up fast." 

_"Leo?"_

"Take it easy. I'm not trying to hide it from you. Besides, his work isn't suffering." 

More than once in American political history, the Vice President had been chosen precisely because he was not bright enough to upstage the Chief Executive. That wasn't the case here. Hoynes' brows drew down into a positively dangerous scowl. 

"But _he_ is." 

Leo opened his hands, an imitation of the way his guest had invited revelation mere moments ago. _This_ gesture, however, bespoke of helplessness. "He's working too hard. I admit that. But there's nothing else wrong." 

First rule of politics: the more vociferous the denial of a problem, the greater the chances of that problem being real. 

"I want to see him." Obviously Hoynes had no intention of leaving otherwise. 

"I kinda thought." Leo sounded fresh out of objections. "Besides, if he doesn't already know you're here, he soon will anyway. And I'd rather be up-front about it than give him the impression that you slipped in here to talk to me, and then sneaked out again." 

The Vice President's growing hostility faltered. This sounded less and less like a smoke screen aimed at _him._

"WHAT is going ON?" 

Leo glanced aside. "Well, I pulled a fast one on him last night. I got tired of him boycotting the sandman. You'll probably get an earful of that, too." 

Suddenly he rose, forestalling further questions. His attitude reeked of a man resigned to the inevitable. "Come on, let's do it." 

The President occupied one of the armchairs framing the carpeted Great Seal, paper and pen in hand, more reports stacked on the side table within easy reach. Charlie stood at his shoulder, waiting to be commanded. 

"Everything's been finalized for the dinner, sir." 

"Right." The Man didn't sound too enthusiastic. "Let's see if we break our old record for the number of PR blunders made in one night." 

His young aide's mouth twitched, fighting a grin. "We can only do our best, sir." 

"Mr. President?" Leo entered first, Hoynes right on his heels. 

Bartlet looked up - and gave a bit of a start at the sight of the _Vice_ President. 

"Hello, John." Was it pure imagination, or did a veil seem to descend, masking his thoughts from view? 

"Mr. President." His _official_ second-in-command nodded pleasantly. 

"Here, Charlie." Bartlet closed the sheaf of papers he'd been reading and handed it back. "Tell Toby and Sam to get the last draft back to me at least an hour before we go." 

"Yes, sir." Charlie took his leave. 

The President removed his glasses and rose, trying not to admit to any physical effort. He did move a bit stiffly. "So, what brings you by?" 

"I was in the neighborhood." Hoynes appeared to be weighing his words. These two men worked together because they had to, not because they wanted to - and not all that well at times, either. Still, their stiff interaction had improved quite a bit of late. 

"Good of you to work us in." Bartlet moved behind his desk, towards more of the endless work awaiting him. This action placed a physical barrier between him and his inevitable competitor... and his right-hand man as well. It also tangibly reinforced his authority. 

Was that stance deliberate? Coincidental? Or in response to a subconscious fear? 

"You're not coming to the thing tonight, are you, John?" 

"No, sir, I'm due in Phoenix." 

"That's right. Well, next time we'll try to accommodate your schedule." This attempt at executive humor had been cordial enough, but it fell somewhat flat. 

Normally the Vice President did not fear to speak his mind, even here. Today, he showed unusual restraint. The pause also gave him time to size up his leader's physical appearance. Already the President showed the weariness indicative of a full day's hard work. 

"How are you, sir?" No one could read anything into those few words besides genuine sympathy. 

No one, that is, except a man already very much on the defensive, mentally frazzled and not approaching things with his normal rationality. Forget the hint of a veil; now a visible wall rose between them, shutting out all overtures of compassion. "I'm _fine._ " 

No decent soul would wish these red-rimmed eyes, taut muscles and depleted resources on anyone. "You look tired." 

"Oh, really?" Bartlet did his best to sound innocent. Given the circumstances, he pulled it off fairly well. "I hadn't realized. No one else has said a thing. And here I thought I looked pretty damned good." 

Leo looked like he'd desperately like to comment, but he bit it back somehow. 

Hoynes didn't miss that. "Well, the workload sure isn't letting up these days. Is there any way I can help?" 

That executive bulwark, solid and unscalable from the start, suddenly developed bristling battlements and armed guards. The withdrawal into privacy became a castle under siege. Cool reserve bloomed into open suspicion. The President sat down in his leather chair, slowly and with a grimness quite foreign to his character. 

"You know, that's an interesting choice of words, John." What his tone didn't give away, the flare in his vision broadcast wide-band. "In fact, it reminds me of a piece or two of constitutional legislation. Is that where this is going?" 

Leo stiffened in stark apprehension. Hoynes exhibited something closer to amazement. 

"Mr. President, that was _not_ on my mind at all." 

The blue inferno damped. Clearly Bartlet believed him, and that belief spawned both wonder and regret. Not only were his suspicions wrong, but he had misjudged - and badly. 

He made a sincere effort to smooth over the unfairness of that implication. "Well, then. Forget I mentioned it." 

Hoynes shifted, painfully troubled. "I'll do my best, sir." 

"Good. So will I." The President's voice lightened a bit, bordering on his habitual good humor, as though the misconception of a moment ago had never taken place and all accidental wounds were healed. However, in the next few disquieting heartbeats, he settled himself more firmly in place and set his hands on the top of his historic desk. It was an open claim of ownership, a statement of iron determination... almost as if it would require the combined _physical_ strength of nineteen permanent and auxiliary Cabinet members, one hundred Senators, four hundred and thirty-five members of Congress and over thirteen hundred White House employees to shift him from that spot. 

Hoynes' eyes narrowed like laser beams. 

Leo's teeth clenched, as though bracing for the worst. 

The illusion passed; Bartlet reached for a fresh report. "Anything else I can do for you two?" he asked with astonishing calm. 

The pair standing before him traded a glance that bordered on disbelief. 

"No, sir." Leo couldn't hide the fact that he wanted to get out of here as soon as he gracefully could. "Thank you, sir." 

The Vice President did not object to this apparent capitulation, surprising in itself. Both beat a rather hasty retreat. 

The instant Leo got the inner door to his office closed, Hoynes spun around. The set of his shoulders boded ill for fair. "I don't believe what just happened." 

"That makes two of us." By contrast, the Chief of Staff looked plain bewildered. "What do you think your chances of success are?" 

"Of forgetting? _Nil._ " 

"What I figured." 

"And for good reason." Hoynes assumed a gunfighter's stance: feet planted, arms slack, hands open and ready. "There's no way you can convince me that he's not ill." 

"He's _not!_ " Leo almost shouted. "And we've got the medical tests to prove it. There's no prescription mix-up, nothing out of proportion or unauthorized, and no symptoms of injury _or_ disease. Physically, he's all right." 

Hoynes snatched at that qualifier. "But _mentally?_ " 

"Mentally? He's tired. He's stressed. He's moody. He's not sleeping. But that's it." 

"Are you sure?" 

Those three words echoed. 

For several anguished seconds, Leo simply could not answer. 

The Vice President nodded once. "He's not himself." 

Leo sighed heavily, unable to deny it. "He's pushing too hard. I think we're pushing him even further, even though we're trying not to." 

"Well, whatever the cause, something has to be done." 

Truer words were never spoken. But to have them spoken by _this_ man... 

Leo went very still. "John -" 

This time it was Hoynes who sighed. The use of his first name helped to bring down a wall or two between _these_ two men, at least. "Leo, I'm not as much of an opportunist as you seem to think. I'm not lying in wait for the one moment when the President lets his guard down a fraction." 

"I know that!" 

"But I have my own realm of responsibility - to the nation." 

The veins stood out on Leo's forehead. "No." That wasn't a denial of fact, but a protestation of intent. 

Hoynes didn't back down one iota. "This isn't just one man we're talking about. This involves the welfare of the entire country. You want to ignore the truth? You want to coddle a leader who can't lead anymore?" 

"He CAN lead! He IS leading!" 

"For how much longer? He's on the ragged edge, and you can't be so loyal to him that you _won't_ see it yourself." 

A long pause. 

"Yeah." Leo got the word out somehow, even though it almost choked him. 

The Vice President pressed his advantage. "The framers of the Twenty-fifth anticipated this possibility as well -" 

"JOHN!" 

"- that the President might become mentally unable to exercise his duties, even though he himself is convinced that he's all right." 

Leo engaged full battle mode as well. Whether or not he himself had conceived of that nightmare proviso before this moment, he steadfastly refused to consider it. "You're talking about removing the President from office AGAINST HIS WILL!" 

Hoynes threw up both hands. "If he won't listen to advice, what other option do we have? _Any_ of us? Maybe the best way to help is to get him right away from the workload altogether. At least temporarily." 

"Which would be traumatic beyond belief. It won't matter how often you use the word 'temporary.' Do you have the first idea what such an ultimatum would do to him?" Leo was coldly furious now. 

"I've got a pretty good idea, and I get no pleasure out of it. But I'd rather do it to him than let him do it to the nation." Hoynes stood his ground. He had both logic and law on his side. "How about _you?_ If you honestly had to choose between one or the other?" 

And just like that, faced with the worst dilemma of all, Leo's anger dissipated. 

"John... I'm begging you." Pride had no place in this moment. "Don't. This would isolate him from all of us. It would _kill_ any chance of us doing him any good. Please - don't take steps. Not yet." 

That last sentence was a heart-rending admission that, sometime in the not-so-distant future, there might _be_ a need to take steps. 

The Vice President subsided as well. Contrary to what one might have expected, his posture did not project triumph. "I won't. Not yet." 

That last sentence quietly warned that the constitutional clock was now ticking relentlessly downwards. A true executive crisis cannot be hidden or ignored, no matter how much that executive might be personally liked. 

This clock, this Constitution worked very much in Hoynes' favor. Would anyone believe that his motives were purely altruistic? 

The heir to the American Presidency rubbed his forehead. He did seem unhappy with the stance his job demanded, even though it had the potential of fulfilling his greatest wish. 

"Help him, Leo. Before I have _no choice_ but to do something."

* * *

That must've been just a coincidence of timing. He'd never do that to me. Not Leo. Leo would _never_ do that to me. Yell at me for a stupid mistake, sure. Trick me into a nap, okay. But Leo would never do _that_ to me. 

Even John wouldn't do that to me. 

Would he? 

Politicians betray each other on a regular basis - especially in _this_ town. 

How hard would it be to convince the Cabinet? Hell, most of my own staff are _already_ convinced! And now the man who stands to gain the most by unseating me has got the wind up as well. 

Forget guns, bombs, diplomatic screw-ups and illness. _This_ is the ultimate threat to my Presidency... and it's _legal._ And as if that weren't scary enough, it might even be endorsed by the people I thought were on _my_ side. 

This must be what it feels like to be handed over to the enemy by one's own allies.

* * *

One all-encompassing trait of the human race is curiosity. The desire to _know_ has driven people to explore, to invent, to push the limits of perception. There is something within us all that cries out for information, for answers, for a solution to the unknown. What lies over that mountain, how could this task be made easier, why can't we try something new? 

This might explain the popularity of mystery fiction, no matter how violent such tales often are. The magnetism of the puzzle, the _I-bet-you-can't-solve-it_ challenge is compelling. However, please note that the true crime genre, while it contains the same fascinating elements of fictional crime - especially if it has yet to be resolved - does not sell anywhere near as well. 

"Hey, Ginger! Whatcha doing?" 

Toby's assistant looked up from her seat in the mess hall and the pad of paper on the table before her. "Hi, Cathy. Oh, I'm just trying to solve a major mystery here." 

Sam's assistant looked interested. "Yeah? Care to share it?" 

"Sure." Ginger scooted her chair over a few inches so that Cathy could sit close beside her. "We can pool our resources." 

"What mystery is this that's got you so engrossed?" 

"I bet I know," Carol volunteered, arriving with a full tray. 

Now Sam's assistant looked surprised. "Oh?" 

"There's only one mystery these days: the President's." 

Toby's assistant nodded. " _Parkez-vous,_ girl. Between the three of us, we should lick this in no time. It wouldn't be a bad thing to have some brownie points with the Secret Service." 

"Point." C.J.'s assistant chose a seat by Ginger's other elbow and looked over the notes already made. "So what have you got so far?" 

"I'm trying to be systematic. This is a criminal investigation, after all." 

"But _is_ there a crime?" Cathy was intrigued by that conclusion. "Or is he just..." She gulped a bit. "Ill?" 

"Uh-uh." Ginger sounded very sure. "Look around; there's still security everywhere. _Someone_ believes a definite perpetrator is at work." 

"Well argued." Carol leaned closer, her food untouched. "What next?" 

"Well, every crime has to have three factors: means, motive and opportunity." Ginger had divided her page into columns, each with its appropriate heading. 

Cathy frowned. "You seriously want to list all the motives for going after the most powerful man in the world?" 

"That would take a lot of paper," Carol observed. 

"So would the list of suspects." 

"The obvious ones include Libya, Iraq and Cuba, plus every homegrown freedom fighter out there, and every lunatic wanting his fifteen minutes of fame. Oh, and make sure you add Vice President Hoynes. You know he was by not long ago?" 

"I'm not going there," Ginger stated firmly. "Anyway, whoever's behind this has an obvious weak link: they need a man on the inside." 

"Or a woman," Carol stressed. "But you're right: whatever is being done to the President, it must be by someone close. What's the word - a stooge?" 

"A _plant,_ " Cathy corrected. "Someone already established here, because nobody can get in and out of the White House otherwise." 

"So we start at the scene of the crime." Ginger was scribbling notes. "If we can figure out the opportunity, it should lead to everything else." 

"All right." Carol rubbed her chin. "Who has that kind of close and regular access?" 

"The domestic staff!" Cathy said at once. 

"But what could they do besides poison him? And that's already been disproved. I heard C.J. and Josh talking about it. The medical tests are clean." 

"Damn. I mean - _good._ But it does ruin that premise." 

"It's not poison; it's overwork." Ginger chewed thoughtfully on her pen cap. "How to you overwork a President? Or rather, how do you _not_ overwork him? Of course he's always had a colossal amount of work to do... but it's never bothered him before. Somehow, something's different. I don't think we can blame the election for _all_ of this." 

"How about whoever's responsible for organizing his schedule?" Cathy suggested. "They could be deliberately heaping more work on him, hoping he'll break!" 

"C.J. is involved in the schedule," Carol reminded her a bit stiffly. "And I sure hope _she's_ above suspicion." 

"Don't worry," Ginger said. "And so are you, for that matter." She grinned at the insulted look _and_ the relieved sigh that C.J.'s assistant couldn't prevent. 

Cathy pondered. "Which leaves the President's Social Secretary." 

"And the White House Social Director," Carol pointed out, somewhat unwillingly. 

"Both of which have been here for months, if not years." Ginger shook her head. "This situation is a lot more recent. I doubt they just woke up one morning and decided to cause trouble." 

"Another point." Carol leaned closer and lowered her voice. "So it's not likely that someone has been planted here for a long term, just waiting around until now. It's got to be a newbie. Which employees have been hired in - say, the last month?" 

"We're always getting new interns," Cathy pointed out. "Mostly students. They come and go all the time." She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, in case one of those interns was close enough right now to overhear. 

"Nah, interns don't have that kind of access." 

"Ruth does." 

Ginger had an immediate answer for this. "There's no way Ruth can influence the President, or the President's schedule. She sits _outside_ his office all day. Besides, Charlie's right there across from her." 

Cathy scrounged for new suspects. "We always have couriers and junior employees in and out of reception, picking stuff up and dropping it off. Some even get right into the Oval Office. But they wouldn't have time to do or hear anything." 

Suddenly Carol sat bolt upright. "But stenographers do! They're present all the time in the most important meetings, they hear everything, and they're never noticed! Could they be passing on information to someone else?" 

"But how would that stress out the President?" 

"Just knowing there's a leak might do it. Trust me - I'm the secondary expert on leaks around here." 

Ginger tapped her pen against her lips. "Maybe... but I don't think that's enough to stress him out _this_ much. Besides, if he thought it was _that_ serious a leak, the Senior Staff would hear about it, which means we would too." She stared at her paper. "There must be another clue, some thread we can trace. Has anything else unusual happened lately?" 

All three young women fell silent for a few seconds, searching memories. 

"The Map Room yesterday!" Naturally Carol had been well-briefed on that public event, but it would have spread through the entire White House by now for sure. 

Cathy pulled a face. "You think it's the photographers? What could _they_ possibly do?" 

"I don't know - tamper with their flashes somehow? Increase the brilliance?" 

"He's got to be the most photographed man in the world. He's long since used to flashes going off on all sides." 

"Then why did that one bother him so much?" 

"Plus," Ginger interrupted practically, "what would it gain?" 

"Maybe they're trying to refresh the memory of Rosslyn," Cathy proposed. "Maybe they want to make him nervous." 

"Or paranoid." Carol's eyes were getting round. "Maybe they want to make it harder for him to make decisions. Cripple his effectiveness at his job." 

"Mmm... kind of flimsy." Ginger swept her hair back, frustrated. "They'd have no way to control the effect." 

Carol sighed dispiritedly. "This is nuts. _No one_ can get to the President. That's all there is to it. The Secret Service are around him constantly." 

Then, in perfect unison, the eyes of all three women flashed together. For two heartbeats none of them dared to move. 

It was unthinkable. 

Cathy rejected that idea first. "No way." 

"Impossible," Carol agreed. 

" _Totally_ brain-dead to suspect _them._ " Ginger threw down her pen. "Somehow, the fun has gone out of this," she grumbled. 

"I can suggest why," a new voice said quietly. 

The trio of amateur sleuths turned in a body. 

Donna must have been standing there unnoticed for the last couple of minutes. She looked at each of her colleagues in turn, very soberly. 

"This isn't a mystery dinner, where you get a prize if you're the first to guess whodunnit. This is _real._ This is a genuine problem President Bartlet has to deal with... and he's suffering on account of it." 

Ginger, Carol and Cathy dipped their heads and murmured assent. It's one thing when you have a fictitious victim, fake blood and a source of entertainment. It's something else again when the deed has really been done, the pain has really been inflicted - and in particular when you personally know the victim. 

"Besides," Donna went on, in a reasonable tone that indicated she'd been thinking about this problem quite a bit herself, "an inside agent is a virtual impossibility here. Everyone is screened way too carefully. If there is an active human intent, then it almost has to come from outside. And you know what the security is like. What are the odds?" 

Her three friends had to nod at the logic of this. 

"Really, the President must be just overworked and tired, and feeling under the weather. He's human; he's allowed to have bad days. Plus, everyone in the White House has been watching him more closely than ever before. I think we're part of the problem all along. We're smothering him with attention. Of course it's purely out of concern for him, but it's doing more harm than good. We _all_ need to lighten up." 

Lighten up? In the White House? 


	11. Harbinger 11

**Harbinger**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** The President's health is breaking down at last - but what exactly is the cause?  
**Written:** Feb, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2002, between “Stirred” and “Enemies Foreign and Domestic 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 11 ~ 

Thursday - evening. 

No one in the New World does a glitter event like the White House, and people will literally fight for the right to attend. The weight of responsibility placed upon the host is considerable: he has to bring it off perfectly. This combines the formal obligations of a world leader with nation-wide expectations to maintain the highest standard. 

The incumbent of ol' 1600 is under the greatest individual pressure, since every guest will vie for his attention and favor. He must cultivate their support in turn; he won't survive without it, and the political value of an invitation here cannot be exaggerated. Then there is the fact that the strength of the Party and the honor of America are on full display, and neither will forgive him if he lets them down. Wouldn't that take the fun out of a party? 

The State Dining Room was well-filled indeed, with people skirting beautifully-set tables and congregating in groups near elegant decorations. Plant fronds waved gently in the slight air currents of passers-by. Music from the orchestra in one corner wafted overhead. Security in the form of both military uniforms and deceptive black suits stood stiffly against the walls. Waiters circulated with artfully balanced trays. Full-length gowns glistened; medals flashed; jewelry sparkled; crystal goblets containing various liquids reflected the chandeliers blazing overhead as the more animated guests gestured to punctuate conversation. 

Jed and Abbey Bartlet were doing the official receiving line thing to one side, where the crowd was, naturally, thickest. No one could equal his affable dignity or her charming grace. Her sweeping gold satin gleamed beside his snow-and-midnight precision. They stood close together, their inside arms touching, their smiles and comments utterly friendly. 

The Social Director had to be present as a matter of course. Trish's job here was directing traffic, mostly to and from the First Couple. It would never do for the throng to mob them or for one chatty individual to monopolize their time. She gave no obvious sign of discomfort or self-consciousness - despite having been personally interrogated by the Commander-in-Chief earlier that day, and on a not so genial topic to boot. 

Janet was one of four official photographers cruising about, as inconspicuous as their prominent equipment permitted, capturing both casual cameos and posed portraits on request. They had no lack of business, since most of the people present _loved_ to have their pictures taken, and wanted to prove to their future generations that they were important enough to be invited to a White House dinner. She, however, made a definite point of staying away from The Man, no doubt remembering what had happened the last time she trained a lens on him. 

Sergeant Yantze lingered on the fringe of a discussion between several braid-bedecked officers, silent and nervous and uncomfortable about taking part. Of course, most people _would_ be nervous in such an auspicious gathering at such a fabulous address. More than once he must have felt like he was there purely for show. 

Charlie glided delicately between knots of politicians. The black tuxedo made his skin look less ebony and more mocha, and further accentuated the flash of his eyes. He approached the executive secretary, who was standing off by herself, taking everything in. 

"How's it going?" 

Ruth straightened her navy dress self-consciously, a vivid contrast to her silver coiffure. "This is my first White House dinner. I'd be lying if I said I didn't have _some_ butterflies." 

He nodded. "Well, I wish I could make it easier by saying that at least you and I don't have to mix business with pleasure like everyone else here. But that's not the case." 

"Has something come up?" she asked at once. 

"Not yet. But I think it'd be a good idea if you and I stayed fairly close to the President. Just in case he wants us." Charlie didn't say " _needs_ us," yet the implication came across. 

Ruth considered the wisdom of this. "Impeccable logic, Mr. Young. Perhaps you can teach me the fine art of invisibility in diplomatic gatherings." 

Charlie smiled. "My pleasure, Mrs. Beausoleil." He offered her his arm. 

Donna entered the room from one side, craning her neck to catch sight of someone. She wore a simple forest-green gown that blended with the attire of the much more important ladies present without attracting undue attention to herself. No doubt she had anticipated having to intrude at some point tonight. 

She corralled the Chief of Staff, who looked like he also was on the prowl for a particular individual. "Leo, have you seen Josh?" 

"Many times." He deliberately waited one beat, and sure enough she rewarded him with her soft smile. "Most recently, over there. Go put him to work." 

"Oh, I will." She followed his direction. 

A few moments later, Leo caught Ainsley between Congresspeople. "Are you having fun?" he inquired pleasantly. 

"Any more fun and it would be illegal, or you would tax it." She didn't quite smile, but her eyes danced at the implication. 

"Great idea. We'll get on it." 

She tossed her elegant braid across the plunging back of her rich mauve frock. "I must say, it's rather a relief not to be the only Republican in the House for a change." 

"I'll take your word for it." Leo moved a few steps further away from everyone else, subtly herding her aside for a more private discussion. His voice lowered. "You met with the President this morning." 

Ainsley's relaxed, off-duty attitude vanished. "And?" 

"That's a bit unusual for him. I hope there's nothing that we need to worry about." 

"The President is entitled to the same client confidentiality as anyone else," she stated quietly, yet coolly. 

Leo rose to the oblique challenge. Few people could look as ominous as he could. "You don't think I have the right and the _need_ to know what goes on in this administration?" 

"If it's administrative, sure." Ainsley didn't give an inch, apparently willing to face the rack before she recanted her stance. 

Slowly, his expression melted into definite approval. 

"Good girl." 

He left on that note. Ainsley watched him go... and this time she _did_ smile. Despite its gender- and age-based condescension, it was still a warm compliment. 

Like the rest of the Senior Staff, Toby was supposed to mingle, make the usual problem-specific rounds, cut the expected deals, and just be pleasant - a chore that galled him the deepest. As usual, he had withdrawn to the bar as soon as he decently could. 

Sam strode over at one point. "The speech went well." 

"Yeah." Toby didn't meet his eye. 

"The President is always a wonder behind a podium." 

"Sure is." Toby stared into his drink. 

Sam brightened even more. "Hey, do you think that might be the cure all along?" 

Toby sighed. "If so, then it's a good thing he has another one to give tomorrow." 

His deputy's grin faded. "About that - I've already started on it." 

"I wasn't asking." 

"You know, it's impossible to be nice to you when you're like this." 

Now Toby turned his way. "That's the idea. If you're not nice to me, then I don't have to be nice to you." 

Sam rolled his eyes and departed. 

Josh was chatting with a couple of celebrities to one side, C.J. with a similar group not far off. As if they'd rehearsed it, they slipped politely out of their mutual conversations at the same time and drifted through the crowd, converging perfectly near one doorway. 

The nod they exchanged eliminated any impression of pure chance. 

"The President's doing great," Josh observed. 

C.J. already had her attention aimed in that direction. They could glimpse Bartlet through a forest of heads in the way. They both heard his laugh rise over the babble as he reacted to someone's joke. He looked and acted more normal now than he had for days. 

Josh stuffed his hands in his tux pockets, not caring how the material bunched. "If only he could spend more time among the people. That's always been his forté." 

"If only he'd leave the work to us." C.J's gorgeous off-white, off-the-shoulder number did not relieve the visible concern on her face. 

"Work seems pretty trivial right now by comparison." Josh could be very empathic at times. Then he studied _her._ "What was that meeting you had with him earlier?" 

She exhaled, venting frustration and something more - something close to pain. "Let's just say I'm going to avoid him for the next while." 

Josh opened his mouth in surprise. Before some pointless comment could escape, though, Donna appeared at his elbow. 

"Josh. Michael Forbes is on the phone." 

Her boss grunted. "Perfect timing; he would have to call _now._ Come on." He turned towards the nearest exit. 

Donna blinked. "I want to stay. I haven't been here two minutes." 

"You gotta suffer with the boss, kid." 

She groaned, and with great reluctance slowly followed him out. 

Abandoned, C.J. began to wander. It seemed only natural that she would encounter Toby before long. 

"You're keeping an eye on him." Toby was not asking a question. 

They leaned against the wall and watched their leader, some fifty feet away. 

The Communications Director tried again after a pause and a drink. "Notice anything unusual?" 

The Press Secretary took a sip of her own beverage, as though subliminally cued. 

You know," she said suddenly, and _not_ casually, "at most events like this the President and the First Lady work the room separately, not together." 

Toby pondered this departure from the norm. "She's sticking close tonight," he agreed. "Just as well." A pause... then his eyes narrowed. "This is telling you something." 

C.J.'s entire figure was tense, her features apprehensive. "It tells me that whatever's wrong with him has now got Abbey worried, too." 

Even amid the constant muted roar of voices on all sides, silence hovered between them. 

The line leading to the First Couple seemed every bit as long as it did an hour past. Like troopers, the Bartlets never let on that they might be tired, or bored, or plain sick of constant small talk. Inanity is especially hard on a sharp mind. Duty is especially compelling. 

"Brazil? Yes, I was there a couple of years ago." Abbey had the current diplomat hanging onto her every word, even as she made him feel special and not just one of a crowd. Her husband stood quietly by, looking pleasant and interested, and let her spin her magic. "Argentina, too. The culture fascinated me no end. Mr. Ambassador, you're very lucky." 

"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Bartlet." 

Sam inched that way, just for the fun of watching consummate PR experts at work. 

Abbey glanced sideways briefly, although she made a point of keeping the ambassador in the spotlight. "Next time, Jed, we'll have to go together. The jungle will take your breath away." 

The President did not reply. 

One second... two... three... 

This time Abbey turned completely. So did the Brazilian representative. 

Bartlet hadn't heard her at all. He was staring at the diplomat, yet his eyes had glassed over and his face gone blank. In fact he stood absolutely motionless, as though someone had hit the "pause" button on a video playback. 

"Jed?" 

Sam edged even closer, his smile fading fast. 

Abbey couldn't hide her first blaze of fear, but she covered up magnificently. They were in full public view here. She tucked her arm through her husband's and gave it a little tug. "Come on, Jed, it's impolite to daydream." 

Perhaps the touch did it, or maybe the forced calm in her voice combined with the scolding tone just right; all at once that very peculiar spell broke. He blinked, for the first time in far too long. "Huh?" His head turned, his eyes widened, his expression sagged... as if right this moment he had no idea where he was or how he got there. 

Now the ambassador was looking more than curious. "Mr. President?" 

Before their collective eyes, realization came flooding back. Bartlet went pale in an instant, and perspiration broke out on his forehead. 

"I... I'm sorry... what..." 

Sam didn't wait for Abbey or anyone else. He kept his features composed and stepped forward with just the right amount of urgency to indicate a staffer needing instruction, nothing more. "Mr. President, may I speak with you?" 

Charlie arrived from the other side at almost the exact same instant; clearly he'd picked up these vibes as well. Right behind him was Leo. Everyone gave ground before the Chief of Staff. 

"I'm sorry, sir, but we need you for a few minutes." 

This sort of thing had happened at similar functions countless times before. Memory took over, shifting Bartlet into automatic pilot; the worst of the confusion seemed to lift. "Yes... of course. Please excuse me." He responded to the hidden grasp on one arm, which preserved the illusion of him leading the way out. 

No one who really knew him would have been fooled. No one who really knew him wanted any public alarm, either. Leo walked on one side and Sam on the other, as though both were conferring with their leader on international matters. Charlie led the way like a good personal aide would, breaking trail through the press. He caught Ruth's eye and she fell into step behind, where a secretary belonged. Of the numerous Secret Service agents that always had to be present for events like this, several left their posts against the walls and added to the procession, which also provided a further distraction and increased the quantity of shielding bodies. 

The one person who did not join them was Abbey herself. Somebody had to stay behind, maintain appearances, cover this hasty exit, run interference, allay suspicions of a problem. There was no one else. Somehow, she wrestled down her own surging emotions, put her profound worry on hold, and reinstated the familiar professional image. 

"I apologize on the President's behalf, Mr. Ambassador. I've told him that he's spending too much time thinking about work in general and the election in particular. It's so hard for him to relax these days, even here. And then of course some other situation has to develop, just when we're finally having fun." 

The diplomat had been captivated anew, and asked no questions. "Of course, ma'am. He is a very busy man." 

Abbey's smile was as charming as ever, though strained. "You have no idea." 

The presidential parade slipped out quietly enough. It could not go unnoticed, of course - he drew attention wherever he went - but no one would dare impede its businesslike progress. All things considered, it was fairly discreet: for a President, and for a friend. 

Scattered among the State Rooms are several tiny office-like chambers, containing little more than a sofa, chair and phone. Even though the First Family had to be the center of attention - in fact it's _because_ they always were - they needed to slip away from fancy events now and then, to be alone and rest a short while. Leo selected the closest such cubbyhole, held the door for his leader, and nodded Sam in after. Ruth hung back; it was not her place to follow any further. Charlie might have been permitted, but Leo had something special in mind for him. 

"Get her," was all he had to say. 

The Secret Service silently took up their stations in the corridor, giving the impression that the entire War Council had gathered behind this firmly-closed door. 

Inside, Bartlet revolved. "So what's happened now?" 

The fog or whatever it was that had wrapped him round was gone; his eyes were sharp and his tone precise. He looked every bit the leader he ought to be. 

Leo and Sam gaped at him, dumbfounded by this instant and complete reversion to the President they knew - from the President they _didn't_ know. 

This President folded his arms impatiently. "Come on! You drag me out of the dinner as though the fate of the nation was at stake, and now you're at a loss for words? Sam, that's totally unlike _you._ " 

Sam struggled to collect himself. "Sir, do you remember what happened in there?" 

"What?" Either Bartlet had truly forgotten, or else he was doing a masterful acting job. Had he even convinced _himself_ that nothing had occurred? "Abbey and I were doing the never-ending reception line, and the next thing I know you want me to leave." He shifted his feet, even more impatiently. Or was it straight nervousness? "Now start explaining." 

"Mr. President..." The Deputy Communications Director drew a deep breath and forced himself to speak the truth. Apparently, of the three men present, only he had seen it all. "You completely spaced out in front of everyone." 

Bartlet froze. One heartbeat pounded past. Then he drew himself up, totally indignant. "I did not." 

Sam hated himself for this, yet couldn't back down. "Sir... you did." 

"No, I _didn't._ " But his tone wavered, indicating that the first smidgen of doubt had taken root. 

"I'm sorry." And Sam was; his entire posture proclaimed that. "But it's true." 

Slowly, the President swung towards the closed door, and the crowd of White House guests beyond, all waiting for his reappearance. 

"Impossible..." He didn't sound so sure, though. For the first time since this whole situation started to develop, he must have honestly considered the fact that something might be wrong. Wrong with _him._

"Maybe it _was_ just a daydream." Sam scrounged for some explanation - _any_ explanation - other than the horrible one he'd already reached. 

Bartlet shook his head in near-frantic denial. His self-confidence of mere moments ago gave way to the first stages of panic. "I don't... I didn't..." 

Leo had heard more than enough. "That's it. You're not going back in there." 

Like evaporating steam, The Man threw off his uncertainty and reached for his guns, shifting at once into command mode as a method of self-defense. Besides, combat made for an excellent diversion. "Don't be ridiculous." 

"Believe me, I'm not. Don't _you_ be, either." 

"I'm _fine._ " By now that familiar declaration was wearing thin. Even the President began to realize it; his delivery lacked its former conviction. 

"You're _not._ And you're also not getting the chance to demonstrate it in front of a crowd." Leo wasn't pulling punches tonight. 

"You want me to quit, just like that? Because of a few seconds' inattention? It was just a daydream!" 

"No, it _wasn't._ You lost fully half a minute in there, and you don't remember any of it!" 

Stabbing fear, delayed shock, refusal to capitulate - all these things marched across Bartlet's face. He snatched at any argument left him. "Have you forgotten how much rides on these dinners?" 

" _Forget_ the politics," Leo countered, no longer interested in the leadership race or the American political game. "We can cover for you." 

"I HAVE to be there." As the President's volume rose, his control dropped proportionately. "I have to set an example. I've got a job to do. I can't let everyone down!" 

A new voice sliced through this tirade. "You aren't." 

All three men whipped around. Abbey had entered totally unnoticed by them all. Her gold satin creation gathered in all the light from the single lamp overhead, so that she seemed to glow with her own source of illumination. 

Leo had long known the best way to get his point across to his old friend, who also happened to be his national leader. The First Lady possessed her tough side as well, and did not fear to unleash it when she deemed it necessary. Jed Bartlet was a very intelligent man, always willing to listen to others, always eager to debate - but when that stubborn streak hit its stride, then it took a forceful arguer indeed to make an impression. 

Now, however, his wife adopted a totally different approach. Perhaps she had divined that for once an argument would only drive him further away. 

"Listen to me, Jed." Her tone was gentle, reassuring. "You're not letting anyone down. You've already met every guest in that room at least once this evening. No one has the right to ask any more of you tonight." 

She spoke as though to a frightened child, rather than an adult and her own husband - much less the leader of the free world. The amazing thing was, it had a positive effect. He actually appeared to be listening. 

This was classic: the irresistible force and the immovable object. One blazed with die-hard determination, the other with unshakable confidence. 

"Abbey, I'm okay." The President did his best to sound like he believed that, no matter who didn't. "I can handle this." 

Rather than contest that obvious fallacy, she sidestepped it. "But you don't _have_ to. It's late, and we've got a full slate tomorrow. Let's call it a day." She spoke so reasonably that objecting just felt pointless - and wrong to boot. 

Of course some people will not listen to reason. "I _have_ to go in there. The people _saw._ I've got to show them I'm all right!" Just the thought of what a scene he must have caused was enough to get him sweating again. 

"Already taken care of," Abbey insisted soothingly. "They know that you can get pulled out at any moment for any number of reasons. And nobody noticed a thing. There's nothing unexpected about you dwelling on your job, even at a party. They _know_ you deserve a chance to rest." 

Her husband scowled, not buying this. " _Don't_ baby me. I'm fine, and I'll prove it to you." 

He was desperate to prove it to everyone - including himself. Which meant he had grasped the idea now that something _needed_ proving. That something was wrong for a fact. In a way, this admission scared his friends even more. 

Abbey folded her arms and suddenly looked a little less gentle. "You and I are turning in _right now._ And if I hear one more word to the contrary, I will slap you into a headlock and drag you upstairs." 

Sam almost laughed aloud at this mental image, and even Leo couldn't prevent a grin. 

Most men would _really_ object to being so ordered around by their wives. Either Bartlet had exhausted himself with protestations to the point where he had no energy left to fight, or else the retroactive shock of his fade-out still had a tight grip on his nerves, or else he'd finally detected the iron layer beneath her deliberately light words. 

"As if having Leo for a mother hen isn't bad enough..." 

Abbey threw the Chief of Staff a sharp look, plainly ordering him to say nothing. He obeyed, not wanting to undo her pacifying effect where he had failed completely. 

The First Lady walked over to the President and linked arms, taking the initiative before he could counter anew. "Let's go. I've had enough for one night myself." 

It would be a real failure of chivalry to ignore that plea. Slowly, he let her draw him towards the door. 

Sam recovered his presence of mind fast enough to open the portal for them. Charlie and the agents on guard straightened to attention. The First Couple exited, and Abbey turned firmly in the opposite direction from the State Dining Room. Bartlet threw a glance back that way, resisting, his expression again showing uncertainty and a frenetic _need_ to stand his ground. Her hold did not loosen, solicitous yet inexorable. She kept up a steady stream of quiet, neutral sentences, distracting him from his distorted compulsion for duty and masochism, leading him towards one sanctuary that they shared. Bodyguards preceded and followed them as usual. 

Leo, Sam and Charlie, now alone in the hall, watched them go until they rounded a corner and passed from view. 

Sam exhaled first, as though totally worn out. "What just happened?" 

Leo let out a long breath as well. "We just got some further proof that all is not well." 

Also, they had proven that the only way to corner a President is with a team effort. It had taken all three of them to break down his resistance and make him listen. 

"You think he's going to be okay?" Sam's voice quavered a bit. 

Leo's voice was dull. "I haven't the slightest idea." 

Sam could find no comfort in that. Then a new idea occurred to him. "What about tomorrow? You think he'll be up to his schedule?" 

"I guess we'll have to wait and see. We don't have much alternative." Leo looked at Charlie, patiently waiting to one side. "Tell the other senior staffers that the First Couple are in lock-down for the rest of the night." 

The personal aide did not need further details. Abbey had taken control, sequestering her husband from the world that constantly harassed him - and locked herself in with him, so that they could face his demons together. 

But what would their closest staff members think about this unusual move? And how would they react, once they learned what had actually happened? 

How could they keep a lid on _this?_

"Okay, back to the dinner." Leo assumed responsibility for creating a smoke screen. "The _public_ word is that he's gone to a meeting, and she's on the phone. Let's go." 

The trio headed towards the glitter event, even though their hearts weren't in it any longer. Sam trailed in third place, his young features troubled. 

The buzz of voices and lilt of music felt totally normal, but he paid it no mind. Instead, he sought out one specific person. 

"Toby. Listen, I have to talk to you."

* * *

I can't believe that happened to me. Right in front of everyone. 

_What_ happened to me? 

Thank God for Abbey. And for Leo. And Charlie, and Sam. What would I do without them? 

May I never find out. 

That was close. It could've been all over the news tomorrow. Whatever _it_ was. 

So my people were right all along. Something... is wrong. 

_What is it?_ It's not at all like any attack I've had before, but if what they say is true... 

Then it means I don't have the full control over my mind and my body that I should. Terrifying thought. 

I HAVE to be in control! Or else... 

Abbey, what is happening to me? 


	12. Harbinger 12

**Harbinger**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** The President's health is breaking down at last - but what exactly is the cause?  
**Written:** Feb, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2002, between “Stirred” and “Enemies Foreign and Domestic 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 12 ~ 

Friday - morning. 

In the animal kingdom, smell ranks above all other senses. By scent animals find food, mates and the way home. They can identify each other from their unique collection of pheromones; they can gauge each other's health and even their intent. Humans, lacking a similar keenness of this sense, perform the very same functions mostly through vision and language. We learned first to carve images, then to write words. For instructions and maps, for news and laws, for day-to-day living, we exist in a visually oriented world dominated by print. 

This also applies to our primary means of identification, of individuality. One's appearance is far easier to change than one's handwriting. Emotions are constantly expressed in letter, poem and song; patents and theses are evidence of originality, ingenuity and effort. Signed contracts, copyrights and constitutions protect each person's unalienable rights and precious identity. Because we rely so much upon the written word, theft of what one has personally inscribed is a violation of one's very being. 

Charlie negotiated the West Wing corridors, which already seethed with the preliminary flood of employee arrivals despite the early hour. Carrying his first stack of the day's work, an impressive pile, he dodged the still-more-than-usual Secret Service agents and headed for his desk outside the Oval Office. 

Ruth was just setting down her purse at her own place. She exhibited some surprise at the sight of him. "Hello, Charlie. How long have you already been here?" 

He grinned as he deposited his load. "Couldn't tell you." 

"You should just move in." 

He made a rueful face. "Nah, the President thinks I'm underfoot enough as is." 

"Speaking of whom..." Her gaze slid towards the closed white door. 

Charlie nodded in resignation. "If the door's closed, he's there. Another early morning." 

"That's what I thought. Now I know why you beat me in." 

"Yeah. So much for him _sleeping_ in." The personal aide sat down and started sorting paperwork. 

The executive secretary took her own seat slowly, looking a bit apprehensive. "Uh... how is he today?" 

Charlie raised his head - and wonder of wonders, he wore a slight smile. "Not bad." 

"Really?" she exclaimed in even greater surprise. 

"I'd say he had a good night for a change. If he can just get more of them, maybe it'll solve everything." 

"How vital a little thing like sleep can be." Ruth's attitude shifted; she must have dreaded dealing with a temperamental Commander-in-Chief today - and understandably so. 

"You got it. Looks like we might not have to worry about him not being up to his schedule today after all." 

"Oh, I hope not! With all the planning that goes into every detail around here..." 

"Right on. And he's got that open-air speech this afternoon." 

"I sure hope this revitalization lasts." Ruth paused, her apprehension returning. She was, after all, a bit new here for these very personal observations. "Or do you think it's only temporary? How often will a night's sleep get him only part-way through the next day?" 

"And what happens if it keeps getting worse," Charlie said in a low voice, his question purely rhetorical. There was no easy answer, for any of them. 

Then he paused in turn. "By the way, thanks for your back-up last night." 

She waved a hand in dismissal. "Of course. I don't know him that well yet - certainly not like you do. But if there's anything at all I can do to help..." 

"I might hold you to that sometime," Charlie warned playfully. Then his good humor faded. "We just have to be extra-patient with him until he works through this moody phase, or whatever it is. For sure, if you notice anything strange, and you can take that any way you want, let me know. We're here for him, even when _he_ doesn't know it." 

Ruth's expression was hard to decipher, as though she had to struggle to restrain her emotions. "Now this is how a nation should be run!" 

"Amen." 

"Excuse me?" 

Both turned. Nancy stood in the reception area entrance, and she clearly had not stopped by just to say good morning. In fact she looked anxious. 

"Hey, Nancy." Charlie's tone indicated that he wasn't issuing a mere salutation either. 

"We may have a problem." She held a single page of paper. 

He rose to meet her. "What?" 

"I found this in the out-basket just now. Lucky I did." She handed it to him. 

As he started to read, Ruth came around to join them. 

"It's the official first-quarter report on the state of the economy. The President always gets these as soon as they're out." As Charlie's eyes flicked down the page, his puzzlement grew more serious. "He signed it. He's not _supposed_ to sign it." 

Nancy nodded emphatically. "It's for his information only." 

"He only signs personal correspondence, orders and bills - and for bills, there has to be some kind of official witness present." Charlie became more concerned and more animated by the moment. "He'd never sign a memo. He'd never sign a _report._ " 

"That's why I noticed it. But that's definitely his signature." 

Charlie peered closer. "Yeah, it is. And there are only two places where this thing could _get_ that signature. In the Oval Office... or in the Correspondence Office." 

Ruth blinked. "The auto-pen?" 

"It _might_ have slipped into the wrong pile by accident..." Nancy suggested hesitantly. That would indicate massive incompetence in this tightly-run ship, though. 

Charlie's eyes were bright and hard. "Or on purpose. Come on." He led the way out. Both women followed him. 

The White House Correspondence Office was located one level below the ground floor, and near the main staircase - a fortunate thing, considering the volume of traffic in and out all day. Countless employees milled about, talking, coming and going. There were mail sacks and parcels and envelope bins _everywhere,_ and literally hundreds of enormous pigeonholes across every inch of wall space. It boggles the mind to see just how much mail is involved in running the federal government's executive branch, the official residence of the Head of State, and the nation's premier museum - all under the same roof. 

Charlie went straight to the rear offices. The biggest, that of the Correspondence Director, was empty. 

He stuck his head into the second largest. "Serge!" 

The young man seated inside looked up and smiled. "Charlie, hi! What's up?" 

"Is Mr. Mattioli in?" 

"Not until ten or so. He's got some appointment." Serge rose, getting the idea that this wasn't a casual matter. "Will a deputy do?" 

"Looks like you're gonna have to." Charlie entered, Nancy and Ruth behind him, and handed over the report. "This got signed. It shouldn't have." 

Serge's mouth fell open as he read it. "Then how did..." 

"You tell me." 

Serge leaped up and rushed out into the rapid action on the open floor. Employees of all ages and descriptions scuttled around, paying him no mind in their urgency. Off to one side, standing nonchalantly in the corner, was a solitary machine. It looked like a cross between a photocopier and a polygraph. 

He stopped and just stared at it. 

"You didn't think someone had stolen it?" Charlie asked, a bit facetiously. 

Serge shook his head numbly. "This is our responsibility." The possible repercussions had hit him hard. "The President _has_ to have one; the amount of mail to answer is humongous. It's used _constantly._ Every piece of regular mail that comes to the White House gets a form reply - unless it falls into the Secret Service alert pile, of course. Letters, cards, photos..." 

Charlie nodded. "But anything personal or legislative absolutely does not get the auto-pen. Those are sent upstairs to us." 

"So who's allowed to use it?" Nancy asked. "There can't be _that_ many authorized. The executive secretary, of course." She nodded to Ruth. "And her assistant, me." 

"Me, too," Charlie said. "Normally I wouldn't, but we needed to pick up some slack over the last year. Plus, we're more likely to be around late after this office has closed up for the night. In case a signed photo or something is needed quickly." 

"The Director. Me. One designated secretary." Serge surveyed the office, looking really worried. "Nobody else. We can't have just anyone walking off with a free autograph. We know which letters are entitled to a signature and which aren't. If you guys or anyone else upstairs needed something signed this way, you'd send an intern down and it comes through us." 

"This is the only auto-pen, right?" Nancy wondered aloud. 

"Of _course_ this is the only one! We're talking about _the President's signature!_ " Serge bordered on apoplexy. "Just one of those little squiggles could start a WAR!" 

The four of them looked at the mechanical device, ignoring the noise and motion around as business trundled on all oblivious. It was amazing and frightening, the power an artificial name-signer could wield... and it was just this overlooked, unguarded little machine buried in the basement of the West Wing. 

Ruth glanced at the walls and ceiling. "There's no camera. No security at all. Not even a card reader." 

"Why would we need security?" Serge demanded. "Anyone who isn't specifically cleared for its use _knows_ not to touch it. We've got fifty people around here at all times, and every one of them knows who _is_ allowed to use it. If somebody else tried, they'd notice." 

Charlie frowned. "Maybe not. They're pretty busy." 

Serge didn't have an answer to that. Things can get missed in the chaos. 

Something kindled in the eye of the President's personal aide. "I've got an idea. Let's run a demo." 

Serge hesitated; no doubt he felt he was in enough trouble already. Then he shrugged and obtained a blank piece of paper. Across the auto-pen's working surface stretched a bridge-like apparatus that reminded one of the delicate needle devices used by scientists to track earthquakes. A sliding hub in the center of the bridge held an ink pen with a thick cylindrical nib. Serge raised the bridge, laid his paper flat, and placed two rectangular metal bars on the top and bottom edges to keep the page still. He lowered the bridge, slid the hub sideways a few inches, and then hit the start button. The mechanism hummed to life; the pen descended that last half-inch to touch the paper, forming an exact ninety-degree angle. With a precision that no human hand could imitate, not even the owner of the original pattern, "Josiah Bartlet" scripted itself across the paper in distinct, perfect black strokes. The machine obligingly dotted the "i" and crossed the "t's"; then, as smoothly as the arm of an automatic record player, the pen rose and the bridge lifted away, waiting for a new assignment. 

There it was, shockingly innocent in its black and white simplicity: the means to create or destroy on an international scale, as easy as that. 

Serge's breath hissed out, as if he'd never conceived before how such a personal thing could be used... and abused. 

Charlie was familiar with this straightforward mechanical process as well. Right now he had something more specific in mind. He stepped forward and placed the economy report on top of the otherwise blank paper, moving the two signed names as close together as possible. 

"Same signature," he observed, sounding very tightly controlled. 

Serge glared at him. "Duh! It's a computer program - it can't vary itself!" 

"Different ink." 

The Correspondence Deputy, the executive secretary and the executive secretary's assistant all leaned over. 

"You're right," Nancy said first. "It's not as thick, and it's blue." 

"Can the pen be changed on this thing?" Ruth inquired. 

"Naturally. The ink has to run out at some point." Serge twisted a clamp on the hub, and the thick-tipped pen came off in his hand. 

She nodded. "Doesn't take long, either." 

Charlie repossessed the report and the newly signed paper. "I have to bring this to the President." He didn't look enthused by the prospect. "What a way to start the day." 

Neither Ruth nor Nancy hurried in his wake. Reception would not be the ideal location when _this_ bomb dropped. 

Serge shuddered, probably at the thought of what would soon cascade down to him. 

Charlie went straight to that closed door beside his own desk... and paused, visibly bracing himself. This time he did knock before entering. 

"Mr. President?" 

"Yeah." Bartlet occupied his desk, hard at work as always. Fortunately, no one else was present just now. 

"Do you have a minute?" 

"At the most." He looked up at his body man's approach. Based on first appearances, the night's rest had been very beneficial; his expression seemed less strained and his movements more energized than they had been for some time. 

And yet, he did not toss out a flippant joke as normally he could be counted upon to do. 

"Do you remember this?" Charlie handed him the economy report. 

The President glanced over it. "No... not offhand. But that's my moniker at the bottom, which presumably means I did see it at some point. Since the evidence is right there before you, why are you asking me?" 

Charlie swallowed. "Sir... it never should have been signed." 

Dead silence. Then, in tangible disbelief, Bartlet started to read it word for word. 

"Charlie, I'm sure I've never seen this report before. And you're right: I wouldn't sign it if I had." He shook his head in anger at the obvious mistake. "Someone's been careless with their sorting. This shouldn't have got the auto-pen, either." 

"Sir... it's not the same kind of ink. It's _your_ kind." 

Slowly, his face darkening like a thundercloud, the President raised the report so that the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him fell full upon it. 

Charlie struggled not to fidget. "I know you have your favorite kind of pen, and I know at least two reasons why. One is personal preference. The other - is so all of us can tell the difference between the auto-pen and you." 

"Hey, I've seen that thing in operation. _Anyone_ could change the pen." 

"I think it's more than that. Here." Charlie offered the paper that he'd watched being signed automatically mere minutes ago. "Does this look the same?" 

"Of course it does!" The Man snarled. "That damned machine is programmed to look _exactly_ the same! That's the whole point - and that's why I hate it so much! It duplicates something that should be uniquely and exclusively _mine._ Wouldn't it be great if one of those reproductions wandered onto a really _serious_ document!" 

"Well, sir, I see some tiny differences here. The auto-pen version is always just a bit _too_ perfect." Charlie took a deep breath. "I think this report was signed by hand." 

More silence. His boss now wore a look of dread. 

"Sir, even you can't sign exactly the same way every single time. The way you hold the pen, how fast you're writing..." Time for the real bombshell: the _next_ obvious conclusion. "Mr. President, we may have a forger inside the White House." 

The impact of that last statement could literally shake the world. 

"Not a chance." The executive denial was instantaneous and automatic, based more upon conviction than proof. 

"What other option is there?" 

_This_ silence roared around them, accusing in its very lack of sound. 

Inch by inch, the President leaned back in his chair and exhaled. He almost looked like he was deflating physically under the sheer weight of this revelation. 

"That I signed it," he almost whispered. His breathing grew harsh. "When I shouldn't have. And then I forgot all about it." 

If that were true, it represented an enormous lapse in both judgment and memory. 

Charlie's features were taut. At least he hadn't been forced to say that out loud. 

"Sir," he offered as gently as possible, "if it was a forger, don't you think they'd choose something more valuable than this?" 

Bartlet raised miserable eyes. "Yeah. They would. One argument against." He pushed the deadly evidence aside and gazed listlessly into space. "My God..." 

His personal aide looked nothing less than stricken to be the one who brought this out. "Sir, anyone can make mistakes. Maybe you meant to -" 

"Don't make excuses for me, Charlie." Now he sounded bone-weary. Again, and so early in the day, after a refreshing night... "My mistakes are a little too critical to be brushed off. This office is not allowed to be fallible - even if the man is." 

Charlie hung his head, as though he felt to blame for the pain being experienced by his leader... to say nothing of standing here and witnessing it. 

"But there's still a chance it _could've_ been someone else. Would you like me to talk to security?" 

"No; _I_ will. I should face up to the responsibility." The President exhaled heavily. "I also want permanent surveillance of _some_ kind on that machine." He stared down at his desk... at the handsome pen set on the desk's leading edge. "And I want a closer eye kept on everything that goes out of this office." 

Just in case, heaven forbid, it _was_ his fault.

* * *

I can't be growing _that_ careless. 

Can I? 

I never sign anything without reading it first. Nobody should - but _especially_ me. 

How could I have made so colossal an error? Did my mind just blank out on me? 

Is something _really_ wrong with me after all? It can't be mere tiredness. 

I've given my life to doing the best possible job - to giving _this_ job the very best I am. And now there may be proof that I can't do it at all. 

We can't have a President who's unable to control his own mind. 

Will this get even worse? Am I going to be able to continue? 

Will I be _allowed_ to continue? 

They could take this away from me. They could honestly believe it would be best, for me and for the office. And there's nothing I can do about it! I might not be able to prevent _any_ action they're planning. 

Enforced rest? Even hospitalization? 

My friends... my family... I'm losing their confidence. 

I'm losing _control._

God, I feel so... helpless. 

No. I'm going to _fight_ this. It's not going to beat me.

* * *

Psychology has become quite the buzzword over the past half-century. The challenge to reach into a living brain and sort out its unique little quirks is alluring. Most people will agree that the human mind contains a vast store of untapped potential, a resource we simply do not yet know how to use to its fullest. Our ultimate destiny may be no further away from us than our dreams. 

These days everyone has formed an opinion about this highly subjective wing of modern medicine. For some people it's become fashionable to have the services of a psychiatrist on hand, perhaps to prove that you're taking wise precautions against a potential (future) problem... or that you have a more complex personality than your neighbors. However, let us not forget the original point behind all of this: both psychiatrists and psychologists are consulted when something is wrong. 

"Cathy!" 

Sam's assistant appeared in his office door. "Yes?" 

"Tell Ginger to tell Toby that I'll have the last draft of this afternoon's speech within a half-hour." Sam had his laptop going full-speed. 

"Right." But rather than return to her desk at once, she paused. "Um, Sam?" 

"Yeah, what?" He didn't pause in his typing. 

"How is the President this morning?" 

His hands stilled. This was no casual or merely interested question. He formulated his reply with care, probing his memory. 

"Tired." 

Cathy winced. "And it's not even lunchtime." 

"I know." Sam had no explanation for that. He didn't meet her eye. 

"What is wrong with him?" 

"I _don't_ know." Now the Communications Deputy Director sat back, looking at her frankly. "We've ruled out every medical cause there is. He hasn't caught the flu again. He hasn't mixed up his meds. He hasn't hurt himself. No one _else_ has hurt him. He's not being poisoned. The MS isn't acting up. And there's no indication of any other disease at work." 

"As if one isn't bad enough. The unfairness of it all." Cathy shivered. "But could there be some _other_ time bomb ticking away in his genes that hasn't come up before?" 

Sam shook his head unhappily. "It's not impossible. Still - despite the disclosure, despite the censure, despite the election - up until the last couple of weeks he's been very well. And the nation has pretty much gotten over gossiping about his general health... just in time for it to all come up again. All the old stuff raked over, every time he turns on the news. And there's no way we can prevent it, or protect him from it." 

_True helplessness: wanting so dearly to help a friend, and being utterly unable to do so._

Carol entered the Press Secretary's office. "I've got new material for you." 

C.J. stood behind her desk, rifling through papers. "Let's have it." 

"You can be sure someone's going to ask about the President's health again." 

She stopped in mid-shuffle. Then both hands descended flat onto her desktop, as though she needed the physical support. Her head remained bowed. 

"Terrific. And I'm not at all sure whether I should lie about it or not. We can't hide this much longer." 

"But publicizing it will do even more harm." Carol hesitated, searching for an explanation. "Do you think... this might be _our_ fault somehow? At least in part?" 

Now her boss straightened, eyebrows raised inquiringly. "How so?" 

"Well... we're all watching him. Trying to help more than ever. Waiting for something to happen. Is there a chance we're actually adding to the problem?" 

C.J. pondered this. "Sure. Worry a person long enough with constantly worrying _about_ him, and what do you get? A nervous wreck. All of our concern and observation must be driving him crazy by now. So of course he pushes himself to prove us wrong." 

Her assistant's eyes bugged. "At the cost of his own health! _We're_ doing this to him!" 

"Except there's one added factor," C.J. said grimly. "We first started to watch him because we noticed something was wrong at the outset. We now know it's not his health. So what started the whole thing? There had to be an initial push somewhere." She set her teeth, as though anticipating battle at any second. "You're right in that we've inadvertently contributed to the result - but we didn't create the problem." 

Carol actually stepped back. "Then what did?" 

"That's a question I sure hope I don't get asked. Here's another: what do we do about it?" Now C.J. sat down, looking tired herself. "There aren't many options. And imagine what would happen if one of us said to him, 'Mr. President, maybe you should consider taking a rest. Get away from this for awhile.' Imagine how _isolated_ he'd feel. We'd be essentially telling him that we believe he isn't up to the job anymore." 

She closed her eyes briefly, no doubt envisioning that scene in her mind. "No one likes to hear the hard truth, even when you _have_ to hear it, even from those who have always supported you. He's said before that he's lucky and glad to have staffers who give him the hard news, the news he needs to hear if he's going to function. But _this?_ " 

C.J. shook her head despairingly. "By now, he must feel like everyone is ganging up on him, rather than rallying around him in his direst need." 

_The whole point of friendship is to have companions for the best moments AND the worst._

Ginger knocked on the Communications Director's closed door. 

"What!" 

She opened it and entered one cautious pace. "Sam says he'll be done in half an hour." 

Head bent over his paperwork, Toby sighed in frustration. "He'd better, 'cause it will take me another half-hour to go over it, and another half-hour for him to polish it some more - and then _another_ half-hour with the President." 

In the strange quiet that followed, he finally looked up. His assistant had not yet departed as should have been the case. She just stood there, watching him uneasily. 

"Is there something else?" he inquired with exaggerated patience. 

Ginger looked like she didn't know whether to voice her thoughts or not; then it burst out, despite her better judgment. "Do you really think the President is up to this afternoon?" 

The deceptively simple question could be interpreted on several levels. Contrary to his usual brusque attitude when it came to personal issues, Toby gave this the consideration it deserved. His usual hangdog expression sobered even more. 

"He might be. I can't say for sure." He inhaled deliberately. "What I can say is that I know him well enough not to ask him. I know not to show him any concern, or sympathy. I know that he doesn't want sympathy \- and he sure as hell doesn't want _pity._ So I bottle up my own concern for him, somehow, and forge onward." 

Toby's hands mechanically turned his pen over and over. "Even so, I want him to glimpse, just a little, that I care about the man as well as the office. That I'm worried about what's happening to _him,_ not just the political implications. I don't want to make the same mistake I made once before." 

Toby shook his head helplessly. "But I can't _tell_ him. None of us can right now. He won't take it right. Sure, he'd appreciate that we all care, but at the same time he'd be furious that we see him as an object of our pity - that we think he _needs_ our pity. That would really rub him the wrong way. It would make things infinitely worse." 

After a substantial pause, Toby set the pen down and lifted his solemn gaze. "I don't know what's going to happen next. I do know that we'll all be there for him, and we'll all help him get through it. If - he _lets_ us." 

_When your friend is also your leader, where do you draw the line between them?_

"Donna!" 

" _Yes,_ Josh?" Her voice dripped with long-suffering tolerance. 

The Deputy Chief of Staff came over and caught the door-frame of her cubicle area with both hands as though afraid he'd fall over otherwise. "I just heard from Leo. He's going to the thing after all, so we're staying." 

She sighed and returned to her computer. "Darn. I was looking forward to some sun." 

"You can break out the tanning lotion later. I've got lots for you to do." 

Donna turned her best puppy-dog eyes on him. "Why me?" 

For some reason, Josh didn't counter with the standard wisecrack. "Because Leo and C.J. are going, Toby's got a meeting with HUD, and Sam has to see Bruno about the latest figures. Someone's got to stay here. In case something happens." 

His assistant instantly cast aside all humor as well. "You really think... something will?" 

"I don't know." Josh glanced away, looking depressed. "Something's still not right." 

Now Donna rose, her face no less troubled. She stepped closer so that no one would overhear. "Josh, we've _got_ to find out whatever's doing this to the President and STOP it!" 

He leaned back against the jam, folded his arms, and stared into the distance. "You know, I was wondering... The whole problem might be purely psychological." 

She frowned. "In what way?" 

"Think about it. What if there's some private thing hanging over his head, something he's refusing to share with anyone?" 

Donna nodded slowly. "We have a bit of direct experience there," she admitted softly. "But what could be so personal and so serious that he can't share it with us? What about Leo? What about _the First Lady?_ " 

"It can't be political. He needs us for that. Even if it's a secret talk with another world leader about a real crisis brewing, even if the first hint to the public might cause a nationwide panic, he still wouldn't keep us out of it. It would have to be _really_ personal." Josh stuffed both hands in his pants pockets. "I don't know - a friend of his in some kind of trouble with the law? A distant family member begging for his help?" 

Donna raised a hand to her mouth. _"Blackmail?"_

Josh spun on her, struck by the possibilities. "That would work. But I sure hope you're wrong." 

"So do I." 

He sank back against the wall. "Well, whatever it is, he's still trying to handle this on his own." 

"And he should have that right." 

Josh shook his head despondently. "Problem is, I don't how much longer we can sit on the fence. We're staring the Twenty-fifth in the eye. How long can he push himself? How long can we _let_ him push himself? When will we all get to the point when we'll _have_ to do something? Force him to rest, to stand down for awhile?" He literally shuddered as, at last, the absolute worst-case scenario was voiced. "Even... remove him from office?" 


	13. Harbinger 13

**Harbinger**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** The President's health is breaking down at last - but what exactly is the cause?  
**Written:** Feb, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2002, between “Stirred” and “Enemies Foreign and Domestic 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 13 ~ 

Friday - afternoon. 

If you launched a poll on what people thought was the single greatest quality that lifts humans above all other animals, most would probably name the power to reason. Many other species can be labeled as intelligent in their own way, but our inherent gift for problem-solving has made us inventive, progressive and infinitely adaptable to all situations. 

However, one should not discount that enduring primitive quality called instinct. Even in the heights of civilization it can be of extraordinary value. More ingrained than logical thought, more instantaneous than any reasoning ever could be, it guides us and protects us in ways that intelligence simply cannot. It cares nothing for convenience or status, and rightly so. It is the all-encompassing will to survive. 

George Washington University had been invaded by security. Traffic was stopped and whole streets roped off, to keep a path clear for the motorcade's arrival and departure route. That, of course, couldn't prevent the kids with backpacks from milling everywhere. They were generally very well-dressed, in peacoats, high heels and trendy outfits, looking more like adults than young students. The University Yard, right in the middle of campus on H Street and barely five blocks from the White House, was a huge open area surrounded by class buildings... an open area black with the press of people. Either the entire student population had turned out, or else spectators had journeyed here from much further afield. Whichever it might be, it was an energizing sight for any politician (and an ulcer-inducing sight for any bodyguard). 

The stage had been set up at one end of this big quadrangle. It sported few decorations: just a roof from the blazing sun, a row of chairs, a podium, a flag at each end and a few bunches of balloons. There had been very little fanfare to welcome the guest speaker. There had been no effort to plaster his face, his name or his title around this gathering. Everything was simple and to the point. 

The President stood at the podium, holding all eyes. His voice filled the air, strong and sure and ringing with earnestness. 

"My fellow citizens, I'm not here to impress you. I'm here to reach you. I call you fellow citizens because that's exactly what we are. Forget any differences of age. I'm a citizen of this country, and so are every one of you. And it's going to take both of us - _all_ of us - to accomplish anything." 

A few university officials had been graciously invited to occupy those privileged seats on the dais. A contingent of black-suited men stood on both sides, hands folded, earphones almost invisible, faces emotionless, eyes moving constantly. One in particular, a six-foot-four pillar with sandy hair, mustache and especially stern features, loomed just behind Bartlet's right shoulder. 

Center stage, seated beside the only vacant chair, the First Lady smiled quietly. She was resplendent in fuschia, her long hair ruffled gently by the breeze. 

Her husband projected all the confidence and sincerity for which he was famous. "I know what it's like to attend our schools and universities. I know what it's like to pay the taxes, and to want the schools kept in good shape. I know what it's like to send my children to our schools. I know what it's like to _teach_ in our schools. And I know what it's like to be personally responsible for the standard of education in our schools." 

On the left, at ground level, Leo and C.J. watched their leader's every move. 

"This is a mistake," Leo muttered, fidgeting in place. "He shouldn't be out and about right now. What if something _else_ happens? We should've talked him out of it." 

By contrast, C.J. was as motionless as a statue, her whole self fastened on the speech and the speech-giver. "We tried." 

"We should've tried harder." 

"You heard him. He wasn't going to call this off just because he felt 'under the weather'. It's been in the works for ages. He refused to disappoint the kids." 

The President's face seemed to glow with passion. "I know what it feels like to send my children forth, the new generation, the hope of the future. I know what it feels like to _be_ that new generation, to carry forth the expectations of my family. I am no stranger to your experiences. I don't want to be a stranger to you!" 

The crowd roared its approval. That wave of cheers made their leader stand even straighter, and smile in both gratitude and pride - pride at them. 

Leo did not smile. If anything, the noise made him more nervous than ever. He kept glancing in all directions, as though expecting disaster to swoop down from the sky. 

"Take it easy," C.J. advised without looking. "Before you have a stroke." 

"Something's going to happen. In one more minute, something _will_ happen." 

"I hope the cameras aren't watching you." 

Bartlet was in his element. "You can't do this without me, and I can't do it without you. You can't do it without each other! We're all in partnership here. Together with the faculty of this institution, with health workers, with law enforcement, with the federal government, and with all the other occupations that exist in this world. You will be going forth to fill those positions. You will be building and maintaining our society for the generations still to come." 

Leo shook his head. "I wish the guys were here, too - if only to pick up the pieces." 

"Work carries on," C.J. observed offhandedly. 

He glared. "How can you stay so calm?" 

Her answer was deceptively level. "I'm too tensed-up to move." 

The President opened both arms, to embrace the entire assembly. "Some of you will leave this country altogether in search of your dreams. And that's perfectly all right. Follow those dreams. _Cherish_ those dreams. I'm not here to preach to you about the glory of America. You already know that! Your citizenship is not the issue today. Your future is. You _are_ the future - you and countless students just like you all around the globe. Together, you are the future of the human race!" 

These cheers were deafening. Bartlet couldn't even make his thanks heard; in the end he just waved and stepped back. The seated guests rose. Beaming, Abbey moved forward to stand beside him. Everyone (except security) showered them both with thunderous applause - including Leo and C.J., no matter how stressed they felt. 

Leo looked more than a little surprised at such an ovation. "I didn't dare hope for this from a bunch of teenagers." 

C.J. sighed tolerantly. "You must've been _born_ mature. Nobody does enthusiasm like college kids." 

"It also doesn't hurt that there probably isn't a Republican in sight." 

"Yeah, that's a pretty safe bet. Something to do with the enthusiasm I just mentioned." 

Then the university band struck up the opening notes to the national anthem. Everyone stiffened to attention. The flags waved overhead, sunlight streaming through their stars, their stripes. 

_"Oh, say, can you see..."_

The Bartlets stood side by side, heads high, hands over hearts. They always had to be the center of attention, naturally - but for a few precious seconds now they were just two more American citizens at this event, listening to their favorite song. 

It might have surprised some observers to note that they didn't sing along. There is something inherently undignified in being photographed with your mouth open, and no one would be photographed more than them, even in this stirring moment. So they resisted the impulse, held still, and soaked it up... as though the sheer power of this tune alone would fuel them for the rest of their lives. 

_"O'er the land of the free..."_

By the time it ended, husband and wife were both blinking a little. The President looked like he believed with heart and soul that he led the finest nation on earth. The First Lady gripped his arm with both hands in the undiluted emotion of the moment. 

As the music gave way to a fresh swell of cheers, he smiled at her. Exactly of old. 

"Did you know that 'The Star-Spangled Banner' is the only national anthem in the world to start and end with a question?" 

Abbey rolled her eyes, probably as much in relief at his normalcy as in amusement. "Yes, I do. You just have to tell _someone_ that every time, don't you? Keep it up and they'll write an anthem somewhere else just to spite you!" 

His grin broadened. "They wouldn't dare. We own the copyright." 

Behind and below, Leo applied a handkerchief to his forehead. "He did it." 

C.J. relaxed gradually, one nerve at a time. "He was fabulous. He's _himself._ We should get him out of the House more often. Crowds are definitely the cure." 

Charlie appeared beside them. "The motorcade's ready." 

Leo nodded. "Okay, let's get him out of _here_ before something _does_ happen." 

C.J. smirked. "Aside from him meeting everyone in the crowd?" 

The Chief of Staff frowned. "Damn. He'd do it, too." 

On the stage, the First Couple still stood hand in hand, waving to the crowd. Photographers clustered around at ground level. Janet was one of them, clearly not worried today; flashes would be negated by the brilliant sun. 

Something went _BANG._

Secret Service agents are trained to act instantly. But as fast as they were, amazingly, Jed Bartlet was even faster. In a motion so lightning-fast that it must have been purely instinctive, he whirled, flung his arms around his wife, and dove with her to the stage floor. 

The bodyguards whipped out their guns and swarmed around their protectees. 

The staff members just below jerked about, electrified by horror. 

The other guests on the dais shrank back as one. 

Then the screams started. 

Leo bolted up the steps, not caring if that route led into the cross-hairs of every rifle ever manufactured. C.J. and Charlie were right behind him. 

An agent barred their path - but not before Leo got one clear glimpse of the President and the First Lady prone on the stage, surrounded by their defenders. 

They were face down... and motionless... and he lay on top. Shielding her from whatever danger might threaten with his own body. 

Everyone's thoughts had to be the same: 

_My God -_

What happened - 

A shot? 

Is he DEAD? 

Then, somehow, one voice rose above the chaos. _"FALSE ALARM!"_

Ron Butterfield stood tall beside the podium, a tower of fierce determination. One hand held a wicked-looking pistol, its barrel pointing to the ground; the other pressed to his ear. He glowered out over the milling, panicking crowd, and shouted into the microphone. 

"All clear. It was a balloon popping. There was no gunshot. There is no danger." 

No sane person would challenge this man's take on the situation. He actually looked scarier than the risk of flying lead itself. 

Immediately after that announcement, the White House staffers present renewed their charge onto the dais, a move now unopposed. The other officials gave ground, totally intimidated by these surges of violent action. Leo, C.J. and Charlie joined the thick ring of bodyguards, making it even more impossible for anyone else to see inside that circle. 

Inside that circle, Jed and Abbey Bartlet now knelt face to face. They both appeared to be uninjured, though somewhat rumpled. His hands were on her upper arms, her hands on his shoulders, as though bracing each other. 

Her face was relatively composed. His was stricken. 

"Abbey, are you all right?" he demanded frantically, overwhelmed by a desperate fear. 

"Yes, Jed," she said reassuringly. "I'm fine." 

"Are you SURE?" With his chest heaving, his tie askew, his hair disheveled and his eyes aflame under dark brows, he did not appear very reassured. Or very rational. 

"I'm sure." Even in the same state of disarray, she exhibited quiet conviction. 

"Are you ABSOLUTELY sure? I didn't hurt you? NO ONE ELSE hurt you?" His tone verged on full-blown hysteria. 

"I'm all right. You're all right. _Everyone's_ all right." The doctor was in and on the job. 

"I don't CARE about me! You could've been KILLED! Somebody was shooting at us, and you could have -" He couldn't even say the appalling words. 

" _No one_ was shooting at us, Jed." She put every bit of strength she possessed into that statement. "It was a false alarm." 

Now, at last, the meaning sank in. He still held onto her like a life preserver, his fingers digging into her arms... but that frenzied glitter paused. 

"False?" he whispered, after several excruciating seconds. 

She nodded. "False." 

"False, Mr. President," Ron confirmed, standing protectively nearby. 

"False, sir," Leo endorsed from the other side. 

Slowly, still gasping for breath, Bartlet looked from face to face. He must have read the vivid concern all round: concern for him. But no alarm for themselves. 

He returned to his wife. She gave his shoulders a comforting squeeze, and never took her eyes off him, providing the anchor he needed so badly. 

"False, Jed." 

In agonizing increments, his tension drained away. His gaze lowered, as all the ramifications began to penetrate. 

"False..." 

Leo tore his eyes away from this sight of his leader coming apart at the seams, and beckoned to Ron. "Shell shock," he diagnosed quietly. "Get him out of here _now._ " 

The Special Agent in Charge gave no argument. 

Leo then turned to C.J. "Stay behind and cover for him. Blame the Service if you have to. Blame _me_ if you have to." 

She was pale from her own shock, from the _very_ long shadow cast by her own memories of a public shooting... yet she gave no argument either. 

All that the crowd could see was the impenetrable knot of security on stage. Despite this, no witness attempted to leave. When that knot started moving away, still not letting them see what had happened, the murmurs became louder. The gathered press kept snapping shutters nonstop, Janet among them, hoping that one frame would get through the crush. 

Then the White House Press Secretary took the podium. 

"May I have your attention? I've been asked to speak on behalf of the President." 

The noise died down with gratifying speed. 

"The President and the First Lady are both unharmed." 

Cries of relief broke out on all sides. She waited until they faded. 

"They are now returning to the White House." She did not let the protestations rise for long. "Secret Service policy is to allow members of the First Family to remain in the vicinity of a false alarm, once the alarm has been proven to be harmless. However, the President sustained a slight bruise to his right knee when he fell to the stage. It would be best at this time for him to return home and rest. He has many other obligations to fulfill in the days to come, and doesn't want to be limping through them." 

A few spectators gave an appreciating chuckle. 

Then C.J. removed her cellular phone from one blazer pocket. "Excuse me a moment." From more than a few feet, its ringing could not have been heard. Or _had_ it rung? 

After a few moments of apparent listening, she returned to the mike. "This call is from the President. He expresses his regret that he couldn't stay to meet with you personally." 

She paused, as though listening again. Several people cheered during the interval. 

"He says he's glad that he could provide you with some entertainment." 

More cheers, mixed with laughter. 

C.J. spoke directly into the phone this time, but the mike picked up her voice just the same. "Yes, sir, I'll tell them. Thank you." She closed the instrument. "The President extends his warmest gratitude to you all, faculty _and_ students, for allowing him to come here today. He wishes every one of you the very best in your future dreams." 

_These_ cheers echoed across the entire campus.

* * *

Dear God, that was close. That could so easily have been real. 

And Abbey was RIGHT THERE! 

If it HAD been real, she would've... 

I can't even think it. 

I already got Josh almost killed once. I will NOT do that to my WIFE! 

If anything happened to her... and because of ME... 

I wouldn't be able to live with myself. 

I wouldn't be able to _live._

* * *

With age, with experience, with power, comes responsibility. The young look up to the old. The novices depend upon their teachers. The weak rely upon the strong. Responsibility is inevitable - and its first task is protection. Children must be taught sound values: sheltered from unfit influence. Students must be trained in precision: educated against superficial conclusions and carelessness. Fragile minds and bodies must be defended from deliberate attack. 

Responsibility requires decision. We must make our choices with the best information we can find and the wisest judgment we have learned, for those choices will affect countless others. The more responsibility, the harder the decisions will be. And sometimes we can only pray that what seems the best option at the time will not turn out later to be the worst. 

Considering that the First Family lives in the most photographed, the most publicized, the most famous residence _and office_ in the nation, privacy is always a problem. The President even has a personal study in the Residence, so that he can find _some_ solitude from the unremitting pressures of living above the shop. 

Right now six people occupied that study, safe from the eyes of the world. However, they were not safe from the _influence_ of the world. 

Ron stood beside the door. Anyone trying to enter from the hall had to get past him first. On the other hand, anyone trying to _leave_ would also need to obtain his clearance. 

Charlie lingered several feet to one side. He looked like he wanted to fade into the wallpaper, forgotten: uncomfortable, apprehensive, and quite unsure what to do. 

Near the opposite wall, Abbey and Leo conferred softly with Admiral Morrow. They vaguely resembled a football huddle... though with far greater concerns than losing a state pennant. Their somber features indicated that in bold letters. 

The man on whom the existence of all five depended did not look at any of them. He'd shed both jacket and tie, but that alone did not convey the sense of being off-duty. His hair was tousled; his forehead was damp. His vision was uncomfortably bright; his features were set in what looked like a permanent scowl. He paced the room constantly, his fists opening and closing, like a prisoner in a cell. 

He said nothing. He had "sunk into his head," as Leo so eloquently put it once; he was drowning in his thoughts. Besides, his ceaseless movements and graphic trepidation were most articulate. Mere words would not suffice. 

"He's physically all right." Morrow cast a nervous glance over his shoulder at the subject of their conversation. "Just shocked." 

"This is the first time he's heard anything like a gunshot since Rosslyn," Leo pointed out, his voice so low it rumbled. "Maybe a long-buried mental block is finally surfacing. Maybe he's having some latent reaction to the trauma of being hit two years ago." 

"Or to the constant state of danger he's always in." Abbey sighed. "That _we_ are in." She sounded downright guilty. 

Leo picked up on that. "Don't blame yourself. This has been brewing for far too long." 

"Whatever it is, it'll wear off soon enough," the Admiral stated with fair confidence. " _If_ you can just get him to settle down." 

Abbey shifted, her eyes tortured. "That will be the problem." 

Bartlet continued his impression of a caged animal. His internalized torment, however, now began to emerge: a half-muttered monologue directed at no one. 

"Abbey's not in danger... now. She never was... But she _could_ have been..." He shuddered, and his pacing slowed. "I can't... I can't _think._ Why can't I THINK?" 

He'd had to face his own danger, at least philosophically, from the start of his term - and, much more realistically, at the Newseum. Yet even so, he simply could not quite grasp _her_ mortality. 

But in a way, not being able to _think_ was the most frightening aspect of all. 

"Jed?" Abbey left the huddle and came over, stopping at a point where her husband's circuit would pass close by her. 

"What?" he asked absently, not even glancing at her as he strode about. 

She spoke very gently. "The Admiral thinks you should check into Bethesda for -" 

He reacted to _that._ In fact he spun on her, all defensive in an instant, as though afraid she and the men behind her would try to drag him out of here at once. "No!" 

"Just for overnight observation," Abbey insisted, calling upon her best bedside manner. 

"Absolutely not. I've had it with tests!" He chopped the air in ferocious denial. 

"Jed, something is wrong. We need to find out -" 

"I'm FINE!" 

She folded her arms. "You don't really believe that." 

He hesitated. Slowly, his too-intense gaze touched each person in the room. 

"No." His voice dropped, and his head bowed, in the first hint of defeat. "You're right. Something's wrong." 

The admission had come at last. 

It brought no comfort - to any of them. 

Then he drew himself up, volume rising again. "But all those other tests found nothing! Why should the next batch? And _then_ what will you do? Lock me in the ward until some other test finally _does_ answer the question? _If_ one ever does?" 

"Will you calm -" 

"Of course everything will be all right in the end, huh?" he added caustically. "I mean, there's always another President coming along." 

Four jaws dropped in astonishment that _their_ President would even _conceive_ of such a thing. 

Abbey persisted. "You can't seriously think -" 

Her husband jerked away. Away from _her,_ as he never had done before. Suddenly, she wasn't on his side anymore. 

"Ron, you've 

got to help me out here! I'm under attack!" 

This man was begging for protection from his doctor, his best friend, his _wife?_

The agent did not move from his post... but for the first time anyone could recall, he displayed genuine emotion not applicable to his job: discomfort, regret - even sadness. 

"Mr. President." He spoke more slowly than usual, another huge anomaly for him. "I can and will protect you from all physical assaults." His obvious reluctance grew. "I can't protect you from your job. I can't protect you from _yourself._ " 

Bartlet just stared at him. In that cold moment, he must have felt terribly abandoned. 

Abbey threw Morrow a glance of welling concern. 

He got the message. "Let's stay here after all. This agitation is counter-productive." 

The President replaced his agitation with irritation. "Well, _thank_ you for permission to remain in my own home!" 

"But this stress has to end. Now, before there's a relapse." The official physician addressed his patient directly. "Sir, you must rest. I'm going to prescribe a sedative -" 

Bartlet recoiled as though he'd been stung. "NO WAY. No more medication!" He backed away from them all, in veritable flight. "I've had too much of that already!" 

"Jed, you have to sleep!" Abbey took a step after him. 

He backed faster. "I don't WANT to sleep! I want to be alone!" By now he was shaking, perspiring and starting to hyperventilate. Panic had taken hold. "I'm BETTER OFF alone! You're all hemming me in! Watching me, waiting for one more slip-up! How can I trust you if you won't trust ME?" 

This was not the President talking: a skilled and sincere politician who had earned his country's support with thoughtful intelligence and great personal warmth. This was a man: a human being driven to the very edge of mental stability. 

"You'll have an attack for sure if you DON'T CALM DOWN!" his wife almost shouted at him. 

"I don't CARE!" 

That statement stunned everyone. He had to be totally out of it not to feel concern at such a horrendous possibility - for himself _and_ his job. 

All doubts had been quashed. Their leader needed help, at once, whether he wanted it or not. This could not be brushed over or covered up any longer; it had to be dealt with here and now. 

Morrow shook his head in resignation and reached for his kit. Leo caught the motion and his eyes widened. 

Then he threw a glance at Abbey, who had never looked so helpless. And that was saying a lot, when this woman did not know what to do or how to help. 

In distraction - in desperation - Leo tried to approach his best friend, acting as unthreatening as possible. 

"Sir. Listen to the experts. You've always known to listen to the experts. They're just trying to help you." 

"I don't need THAT kind of help!" Bartlet snapped back. He didn't retreat, though; he was used to arguing head to head with his right-hand man. 

"Then listen to _me._ Take a deep breath, and let it out. Get yourself back in hand." Leo kept his voice steady, the same way he did when discussing a political or military plan so many times in the past. It was a familiar sound, a comfortable sound. 

"I don't need your psychology, either. Just leave me alone. I'll be fine." Still, at least the President didn't summarily reject _him._ Just maybe he could be reached by _one_ of them. 

Any concrete success that might have been reaped in another few moments by this deeply-ingrained friendship, however, was scuttled by Morrow's premature approach. When the President saw the syringe glinting in one hand - 

"Get AWAY from me with that thing!" To their total astonishment he lunged forward, knocking Leo aside, and seized the Admiral by both wrists, keeping the needle at bay. 

Morrow staggered backward. "Sir, _please_ -" 

By this point Bartlet was red-eyed furious and beyond all reason. He held on, wrestling wildly with his own official doctor as though engaged in a battle for his very life. 

"Sir!" Leo tried to yank him off, without success. 

"SIR!" Ron dove into the fray, ducking as the syringe waved dangerously about. 

Abbey gaped at the unbelievable sight before her. She had to do _something_ to stop this insanity. At length she managed to catch Morrow's right hand, snatching the needle away before it could inflict any damage. 

Teeth bared in a feral snarl, his breathing harsh and fast, the President of the United States pressed in, heedless of the two men hauling on either side. He'd received his second adrenaline rush, and he'd fixated on that uniform as his premier threat. Not even the lethally-trained head of White House security could contain this manic force. Not even with Leo's help. 

But with both _their_ help Morrow finally got his own leverage, and the three men pooled their resources. Amid a tension so extreme that the muscles bulged under his shirt, the veins stood out on his forehead and his breath came in gasps, Bartlet found himself held between them. 

For the moment only. With Ron and Morrow both on the left arm, and their prisoner still struggling in all his crazed desperation, Leo was the weak link to this fantastic battle. 

"Charlie!" the Chief of Staff bellowed 

Up until now, the personal aide hadn't moved, stunned by disbelief at what he was witnessing. Leo's shout jarred him out of it and he sprang in to add his strength and weight onto the right arm, making this four against one. They _had_ to restrain the President before he hurt himself, or one of them. Even if it meant manhandling their duly elected national leader. Even if it meant broken laws... or broken bones. _Theirs,_ of course. 

That left Abbey, standing petrified a few feet off, watching these five men wage open combat. Watching her husband, the father of her children and the most powerful man in the world, a towering intellectual without a violent nerve in his body, fight for his freedom like a mad thing. 

For freedom from their grasp right now, and for freedom from whatever control they might exert over him in the future. 

She still held the syringe in one hand, forgotten. 

That sight - his beloved wife apparently set to drug him against his will, with the coercive assistance of four colleagues he had once trusted with his life, so that they could do whatever they wanted to him and to his office - shattered the last link in Jed Bartlet's fragile control. Giving vent to a half-growl, half-roar of fury and betrayal, he summoned a prodigious strength no single man should possess, and wrenched free. 

The sheer savagery hurled his captors off in all directions - and flung him backwards, off-balance and falling. 

Abbey cried out, knowing what would happen next and powerless to prevent it. 

His head struck a table leg on the way down. They all heard the _clunk._

A horrible stillness gripped the entire room and everyone in it. 

Abbey shot forward first. "JED -" Her voice went right up the scale. 

Leo was right beside her. "What have we _done?_ " 

Morrow shoved his way between them. "Let me see!" 

Their supreme commander lay flat on his back, his head rolled limply to one side, eyes closed. 

Each of the three clamped a hand on his pulse, frantic to know if he still _had_ one. 

All animation, all the fire that had raged mere moments ago, all visible signs of life, had fled. A bright trickle of blood already stained his left temple, like a scream of accusation. 

"I've got a pulse!" the Admiral announced in tainted triumph. 

Abbey couldn't help herself; she reached out to touch the point of impact, ever so tenderly. This man was her life... 

Even that light contact made him twitch. 

"His eyelids are fluttering." Morrow heaved a sigh. "He can't be too badly hurt." 

"What about a concussion?" Leo demanded, not at all convinced. "What about _brain damage?_ " 

The official physician shook his head. "Not likely, unless he experiences disorientation. It was a glancing blow. But let's get him to bed so I can make sure. We don't want a relapse, either. And if he gives us more trouble like this I _will_ sedate him." 

Ron had stepped back and tugged his suit into shape, once again on guard, his personal feelings carefully masked. 

Charlie still knelt on the floor where he'd landed. He was in utter emotional turmoil at seeing a man he so deeply respected come to this. 

His vision fell upon the President's right arm, where it rested on the carpet... flung out as though in an appeal for help. Around the wrist were several glaring red burn marks. Marks made by fingers holding too tightly when Bartlet tore himself loose. 

Charlie stared down at his own hands, appalled at having inflicted injury - no matter how accidental - upon his boss. His mentor. His _Chief Executive._

Abbey was too focused on her barely-conscious husband to notice, but Leo did. He came over, moving stiffly from both the physical exertion and the mental distress, and placed his hand on the young aide's shoulder. 

"Take it easy, Charlie. He'll pull through. He _will._ " 

The words rang hollow. 

"I -" Charlie lurched to his feet, bowed with shame. "I gotta go." He hurried out of the study, not daring a glance back.

* * *

My friends... my family... they're all lined up against me... They don't trust me! They BETRAYED me! Got to fight... not give in... Who can I trust? I don't KNOW! God help me... help me... help... 


	14. Harbinger 14

**Harbinger**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** The President's health is breaking down at last - but what exactly is the cause?  
**Written:** Feb, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2002, between “Stirred” and “Enemies Foreign and Domestic 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 14 ~ 

Friday - early evening. 

If you're going to get anywhere in this world, even on a modest scale, you have to deal with reality in all its harshness. But never forsake your dreams; they may well be the sole preserver of your sanity among the depressingly mundane. Besides, most who reach for stars don't fall short by much, and will at the very least witness the glory of the heavens... while those who don't dare to look up miss the entire celestial display. Somewhere between dreams and reality is balanced the fragile human soul. 

Just as dreams cannot be lived in forever, so reality cannot be escaped for long. It influences our every action and thought. It kills some dreams, and empowers others. It is just as impartial as the death and defeat it so often embodies. And when reality becomes unbearable, or inconceivable, what then? 

The Press Secretary's office was quiet, but it was not empty. 

C.J. and Toby sat in chairs opposite each other. She had chosen not to preside from behind her desk - perhaps because this most definitely was not a business moment. 

They neither moved nor spoke. He stared at the floor, she at the wall. The persistent end-of-day bustle from outside penetrated faintly through the half-open door. 

Finally, she broke the uncomfortable silence. "I'm glad you came by." 

He replied with only a soft throat murmur, as demonstrative as ever. 

"I'm really glad Leo told you... so I didn't have to." 

Toby exhaled, still not looking up. "I saw the broadcast." 

"Then you saw his reaction. I might be able to spin this one - the President's first thought was for his wife, not himself - but _then_ what?" C.J. actually shivered. "He was doing so much better... and now..." 

" _None_ of us can be expected to deal with the sound of gunfire too well, even now." 

"This goes way beyond skittish. Now we _know_ there will be other incidents. A lighter workload, a good night's sleep, a happy crowd... they're delaying tactics, nothing more! We can't cover them up much longer." 

This time the Director of Communications raised his head. "You covered well today." 

"Yeah, I'm a real actress." C.J. projected disgust. "I _hate_ lying to the press. From the start we wanted to be on the level with them, both as a moral thing and because it's so much safer. Now I can handle lying when we need to get a downed pilot out of Iraq secretly, or when the merest suggestion of mad cow would cause a public panic. This..." 

"We're trying to save the President's image, and just possibly his health as well." Toby paused introspectively. "But if we have to do that a lot -" 

She met his eye, the fear taking precedence. "Then we _shouldn't_ be." 

The half-closed door to her office swung all the way open to admit a Josh-sized cyclone. 

"Man, you guys should leave me in charge of the White House more often!" The Deputy Chief of Staff virtually glowed with self-satisfied victory, consumed by the human need to tell someone and oblivious to all else. "It's never been in safer hands. I tell ya, I diffused two near-disasters and headed a third one off at the pass, all in less than..." 

C.J. and Toby just studied him in silence - not so much impressed as _de_ pressed. It took a few seconds, but it sank in at last. 

"What?" Josh slowly grew more serious. "What happened?" 

"Okay, what happened?" Sam burst across the threshold as well to stand beside his best friend. Unlike said best friend, he already exuded urgency. 

Josh threw him a wounded expression. "You can't just barge in here and ask that." 

The Deputy Communications Director frowned even deeper. "Why not?" 

"'Cause right now that's _my_ thing. I'm first in line. So what _did_ happen?" Josh repeated. 

" _I_ have a right to know, too. There's a rumor running wildfire about an _incident_ at the President's campus visit." 

That made Josh pause. 

Both young men turned to their seated and strangely quiet colleagues. 

C.J. regarded them with a total lack of energy or reassurance. "A balloon popped." 

Josh had one broken moment of confusion - and then dawning alarm. 

"He thought it was a gunshot," he whispered, obviously hoping she would deny it. 

She didn't. Josh staggered backwards a bit. Sam just stood there, mouth open and mind churning. Toby, already privy to this news, kept his elbows on his knees and his eyes on the carpet. 

"Good. You're all here." Leo appeared in the doorway, the final element needed to complete this gathering of the best and the brightest. 

All four staffers faced him. He looked every bit as tired as Jed Bartlet had in his worst moments. 

"The President is asleep. But the First Lady and the official physician will stay with him tonight, just in case." 

Silence reigned: the silence of fear. 

"What _happened?_ " Sam couldn't prevent himself from asking - from _knowing._

"He thought he heard a shot and dove to the ground, taking Abbey with him. He's got a bruise or two, but that's not the problem. He's pretty shook up." Leo hesitated, as though wondering how much more he should say. 

Josh swallowed. "How bad?" 

"Bad." Leo didn't elaborate. He didn't have to. Instead he switched tracks, which told them all they needed to know. "The Vice President just called me." 

Toby's head sank further. "Oh, God." 

"The live coverage would've reached him almost instantaneously," C.J. realized, sitting up straighter in apprehension. 

"Yeah." Leo shrugged at the mixed blessing of a very prompt news media cycle. "Nothing receives as much air-time as an alarm, even a false one. I managed to put Hoynes off... but he's losing patience." 

More silence. 

Sam broke the spell first, saying the things no one wanted to hear yet everyone had to face. "The President's getting worse. Even when he does sleep, the reprieve is wearing off faster and faster. What will _tomorrow_ be like?" 

No one wanted to answer that, either. 

Leo took a deep breath, preparing himself for some very difficult decisions. "We've reached a crisis. We're at a point now where we have to consider something besides just his health." Getting the next words out required almost a physical effort. "We have to consider the welfare of the nation as well." 

_This_ silence was from shock, pure and simple. 

Leo looked at each of the four, utterly serious. "We can't put off the inevitable. We can't operate like this anymore. We can't _hide_ this anymore. We're down to the wire: what's best for the White House, the country _and_ the President." 

Coming from any other man, this would sound like nothing less than treason. 

Of course, for Leo it _would_ be treason - but not to the country. To his friend. 

The line of clocks on the wall of the Communications bullpen just down the hall, representing the principle time zones of the world, seemed to increase their volume until the ticking filled this office and rang through all five minds present. 

One of those clocks was labeled "POTUS." And in a weird, anthropomorphizing way, as its second hand approached twelve, it led the countdown.

* * *

It is no accident that one of the most popular formats for book, television and movie plot structure has always been cops and robbers. They represent the inherent battle of good against evil, in familiar surroundings, at a level to which all viewers can relate. Even when the robber is occasionally cast as the good guy instead - there can be something magnetic about a dashing, stylish villain - the basic concept of civil order speaks to the ingrained need for safety in all of us. The recent increased focus on forensic and legal angles in TV shows merely reflects a more thinking audience, one preferring the mystery to the violence. 

In actual fact, this police methodology long predates our early fascination with gangster-style shoot-outs. Criminals of any era are seldom timid pheasants that can be flushed from cover with a show of uniformed strength and gunned down for a tidy finish. Then too, capturing the culprit accomplishes nothing without the hard, painstaking evidence that leads to conviction. Evidence, however, still has to be interpreted correctly. 

The nation's business didn't automatically slow down for nightfall or even midnight. Certainly, no one who worked with the President's Senior Staff ever expected to leave before supper. All too often, other employees got roped into the same schedule as well. In this case it was Janet, pouring over the results of her work from that afternoon. 

The White House has its own state-of-the-art darkroom buried in the basement; there is an entire corps of photographers permanently on the payroll, and they must be able to develop their rolls of film and print their pictures on demand, day or night. The composition room next door, by contrast, was brilliantly lit, with lots of tables and chairs. Markers, rulers, magnifying glasses, cutting blades and various other paraphernalia lay scattered about. 

Janet peered closely at one glossy from a wide collection strewn before her, magnifier in hand. It was well past the usual quitting-time, and she had the place to herself. 

She did not hear the soft footfalls approach from behind. 

"Excuse me." 

At this sudden voice she fairly sprang off her stool, whirling around as though cornered. Not only because she hadn't known someone was there - but because of who it turned out to be. Someone the entire White House staff treated with a _very_ wary respect. 

Ron Butterfield did not apologize for scaring her half to death. In fact he probably enjoyed it, though not one twitch of his features hinted at such. The frightening reputation of the United States Secret Service was hard-earned and well-deserved, and a weapon in its own right. The agent ultimately responsible for the White House in general and the President in particular benefited from that reputation most of all. 

Of course, his height - and his forbidding expression, which always seemed to imply both alertness and a tightly-controlled anger - didn't hurt either. 

"You were the White House photographer at George Washington campus today?" His tone indicated that he knew full well she was, but he still granted her the courtesy of a question. 

She managed a nod, struck speechless at being the subject of this terrifying man's undivided attention. 

"I'd like to see your photos." 

In unnerved silence, she stepped aside to permit access. Only the most desperate or unbalanced of minds would oppose _him._ Even the President gave ground the vast majority of the time. Besides, no one could deny that Ron knew his job and was good at it. 

In a similar silence, this one quivering with focus and tension, he looked from image to image. Janet had captured plenty of the standard shots: Bartlet arriving on stage, Bartlet speaking from the podium, Abbey seated behind him, the First Couple standing at attention for the national anthem, the First Couple waving to the crowd. 

She had also immortalized three very poignant moments in time. Bartlet in mid-whirl, moving so fast he blurred slightly; the First Couple starting to fall, the President's arms wrapped protectively around his wife; the First Couple just as they struck the stage floor, his face hidden but hers visible, her expression indicative of the most elemental shock. 

"You have a good-quality camera," Ron observed in his level, give-nothing-away attitude. 

Janet gathered her courage. Her job required that she take photos; surely he hadn't come here to visit Service vengeance upon her for _that._ "It has a very fast firing speed. Sometimes... things happen." 

"Good foresight." A compliment from this man was rare indeed. The photographer started to breathe normally again. "I'd need copies of all of these frames." 

"Uh, sure." Like she'd even consider refusing. "Um... it'll take me a couple of hours." 

"As soon as you can." Ron straightened. "I also want copies of any other photos you have of the President over the last three weeks. I know about the incident in the Map Room Wednesday." 

Janet paled anew. 

Ron did not blame her directly for that event. "I'll be back tomorrow morning to speak to the other photographers as well." 

Janet wavered between intimidation and curiosity. The fact that he was not finding fault with _her_ tipped the scale. "You think there's something here that can help the President?" 

Her evident desire to assist for Bartlet's sake might well have prompted Ron to be a bit less unapproachable than usual. "It's possible. Video stills aren't as crisp as actual photographs. There could be a common face in the background, or other clues along those lines. If there is, we're going to find it." 

He left on that note. And he left no doubt that, if something existed to be found, find it he would.

* * *

Friday - late evening. 

Centuries ago, when world exploration was the whim of greedy kings and the risk of daring mariners, before latitude and longitude, map making reflected our peculiar human nature in a fashion it never has since, and probably never will again. People truly had no idea of what lay beyond the horizon, what places they might find and what creatures they would meet. Ships set forth and never came back to report. In this context, it might not be so surprising after all for map makers to fill the blank borders, the uncharted and terrifyingly unknown regions beyond their safe lands, with the most fantastic and frightening drawings they could imagine... and to inscribe, "Here there be dragons." 

When we now look towards exploring space, we face the very same wonders and fears. The possibilities hidden within those incomplete maps are truly endless; the devouring dangers we will one day encounter are still beyond our comprehension. And when we turn inwards to the convolutions of the human mind, is our plight all that different? (Except that here, "dragons" might better be labeled "demons.") 

Work in the White House is ever ongoing. The administration starts early and stays late. Culinary staff have to be on hand for those who want supper at ten and breakfast at six. Domestic staff, and of course security, are present round the clock to see to the First Family's needs. General maintenance requires a small army in itself; the lower levels are cleaned mostly in the wee hours of the night when business slows down at least a little, whereas the living quarters are tended to during the day when their occupants are more likely to be out. 

It was a vacuum-pushing maid that found Josh first. In fact she almost ran over his foot, since she hardly expected to find someone sitting on the floor beside a huge potted tea tree in the corner of an otherwise vacant corridor in the middle of the West Wing. 

She drew back swiftly, more than a little surprised. Most people don't do their daydreaming from the carpet. 

He stared into space, giving no sign at all that he even knew she was there. 

The vacuum's muted roar seemed to pause with her as she studied his profile in no little confusion. Then she pulled away and hurried off on her business down the hall, probably missing a few square feet in the process. Certainly she never seriously considered asking him to move so that she could make a thorough job of it. By now the entire behind-the-scenes employees of the White House must have been convinced that the President's staff had long since gone round the bend. 

Sam arrived next. The cleaning maid's somewhat anxious glances over one shoulder as she crossed his path helped point the way to his target. 

"Josh." 

"Huh?" The Deputy Chief of Staff took a few moments to segue back into this existence. Blinking, he craned his neck stiffly upwards. 

"You okay?" 

"Yeah." 

Sam knew better than to take that flat, vague tone at face value, but he didn't jump to conclusions either. He just shrugged and lowered himself down to a seat on the floor beside his evidently depressed friend. 

Neither of them spoke for several seconds, and neither of them looked at the other. The last hum of the vacuum faded, leaving them in near-perfect silence. No other worker was in sight, either domestic or administrative. 

Finally Sam broached the obvious. "So tell me about it." 

Josh examined his hands, resting on top of his bent knees. He clasped and unclasped his fingers as though he'd never experienced that simple motion before. 

"I was just... thinking about the President." 

"Ten points for me." Sam kept his words light from habit, but not _too_ light, encouraging more revelation. 

Josh didn't respond to that overture. His voice barely rose above a whisper. "You know, when I got all post-traumatic on you guys two Christmases ago... I'm pretty sure I never even _thought_ about something similar happening to him. After all, he seemed to recover so well. He never dropped a clue." 

"Neither did you before that month," Sam said quietly. "I expect most people don't, until something comes up that acts like a trigger. Makes you wonder how many victims are out there right now, walking around, as normal as can be. Like ticking time bombs." 

"Like I was. And maybe... like him now?" Josh started to get agitated. "This kind of thing isn't supposed to happen to _him._ He shouldn't _need_ that kind of help! He's got so much riding on him. He's too strong for this psychology crap. He's too stable. He's too..." 

"Presidential?" 

Put that way, Josh saw the incongruity to his thoughts. "Yeah." He forced himself to make the obvious admission. "But he's still human." 

Sam sighed. "He is. And we'd probably _all_ have unpleasant reactions to anything like gunfire. It's something we'll never forget completely." 

"But think about the nature of his job! He's never _not_ in danger! It'd be far more amazing if he _hadn't_ developed something. Just knowing that another massacre can happen at any instant -" Josh closed his hands into fists. "You guys spent all that time on me before. _Nobody_ thought about him." 

"Hey." Sam gave his arm a comrade's light punch. "You pulled through. So will he." 

" _Maybe._ He's not well. He really came unglued." 

"He was worried about his wife, Josh - not himself. I'd say that's a mark in his favor." 

"But it's not enough. No matter what sparked it, it's a real problem, with a real source." Josh spoke from bitter and personal experience now. "And we're going to have to address it. It's not going to just go away." 

"Well, with you showing us the way, we've got it in hand." Sam displayed no uncertainty at all about that. "He's our President, and we're there for him."

* * *

When faced with overwhelming odds and a battle that can't be won, there are generally two options. The first is to acquiesce with dignity, accept the inevitable and endure the defeat. The second is to fight to the last gasp, hoping for a miracle, or at the very least for a death with pride. There are advantages and disadvantages to each approach: unconditional surrender eliminates one's ability to seize any last-instant opening that might appear, and foolhardy perseverance can mean an even more crippling loss without profit or recovery. 

For those who choose neither to capitulate when things seem hopeless nor to struggle towards an unattainable goal, there is of course a third alternative: to quit the scenario altogether. One such method would be flight, if flight is possible. Another... 

For most of us, and especially couples and teenagers, the bedroom is sacrosanct, a retreat inviolate from all intrusion - familiar or otherwise. It might seem the height of irony that such a simple and basic privacy is almost always denied any national leader. But then, those who possess either great wealth or great influence must yield something in turn. 

In this case it was the official physician, not a domestic staffer changing towels or a political advisor with news that couldn't wait. Granted, the medical profession as a rule has to be permitted just about anywhere; but whether that was better or worse than stewards' livery or business suits could be spiritedly debated. From Jed Bartlet's point of view, nothing posed a greater threat to him right now than a doctor. 

Abbey paced the length and breadth of the spacious chamber, striving to preserve her usual calm deliberation. Her reduced success this evening was notable. 

"You're staying put tonight. And tomorrow we're going to Manchester." 

Admiral Morrow occupied a chair against one wall, motionless and silent. To his credit, he did look like he _felt_ he was intruding. His lack of contribution, though, broadcast his agreement with the First Lady's announcement. These two had their patient outnumbered. 

The President sat on the edge of the executive bed. He still wore shirt, trousers and socks, having not been completely stripped of self just yet, but their rumpled appearance matched his tousled hair and enhanced his off-balance atmosphere. His feet hung just off the floor, with nothing firm to stand upon; his fists sank into the mattress on either side as if braced for war. His shoulders were hunched and his face set in a sullen frown. 

More than anything else, he resembled an unrepentant child banished to his room for some minor infraction. There was the air of helplessness, outrage, and revolt. And yet, one could still see in this man the pride of a captive eagle... and the danger of an imprisoned lion. 

The small cut over his left eye no longer bled; however, neither it nor the bruise blooming around it could be missed. 

He refused to grant either of his adversaries the honor of direct eye contact, but kept his burning gaze fastened on some personal goal invisible to everyone else. 

"For how long?" 

He spoke softly. Whether he was actually yielding to the superior forces that encompassed him round or just pretending to do so, no one could say. Certainly his aura of anger, of betrayal, of near-defeat, of near-hopelessness could not be faked. 

His wife, normally his staunchest ally, now forced by circumstances to oppose him in the most fundamental fashion, still did her best to be reassuring. "Just the weekend. Think of it as a brief holiday." 

"Sure. From a job I can't handle anymore." Bartlet was voicing his interpretation of their thoughts, not what he himself believed. "And after that? What then? A hospital room? A padded cell? For sure you don't want to let me loose in D.C. again." 

Abbey opened her arms in denial. "Jed, _will_ you understand -" 

"Oh, I understand, all right. The time has come. I'm past my best. The only option left is retirement. Put me out to pasture." 

Despite this scathing sarcasm, one who knew him could have detected the underlying emotion. He was frankly scared, and trying desperately to hide it. His worse fear had come to pass: a total loss of control over his own being. 

His wife exhaled through clenched teeth. "This is _temporary._ Two days. You just need to get away for a bit, and rest." 

And still he didn't look at her. "Whatever. You're in charge. You might as well go ahead and tell me all about my future. It's obvious I won't have much say in it." 

His tone reeked of false submission. Was he preparing to bolt at the first opportunity? Not that he could hope to get very far with the Secret Service taking orders from people other than himself by now... 

"We're not trying to control your life!" Abbey exclaimed in exasperation. "We're trying to _help_ you! And we're _going_ to help you, no matter how stubborn you are." 

"Thank you. Not an ounce of consideration for _my_ views in this." 

"How about a little consideration for _us?_ " She really sounded like a scolding mother now. "Leo's tearing up inside. You've never doubted him before, but he's terrified that this is going to cost him your trust _and_ your friendship. And I can't imagine how Charlie must feel." 

"Yeah, break out the old guilt trip. That always works." 

"It works on me, too." For the first time, Abbey turned the focus of this conflict towards herself. Guilt tinged her features as well. 

The President snorted. "Boy, the shoe's really on the other foot, now, isn't it? Last time _I_ was the one who broke trust. With Leo, and the others - and you. So, this is your God-given chance to even the score." 

She clapped a hand over her eyes. "I can't _believe_ we're talking like this. A two-year-old would be easier to reason with. _Think,_ Jed! This is a crisis. It has to be handled - and we can't see any other way of handling it when you won't listen to us. We're _afraid_ for you. In fact I'm too afraid _not_ to risk damaging whatever trust you might have left." She caught herself before she revealed more of her own deepest fears. "We're all just hoping and praying that the cure doesn't ultimately turn out to be worse than the disease." 

"That remains to be seen. Some cures are purely a matter of interpretation." He shrugged, dismissing the entire debate. "But don't listen to me. After all, it's the mental patients who are the most convinced of their sanity. So, what do you think, Doc?" he challenged, still not meeting her eye. "Am I really sane, or do I just _think_ I am?" 

Judging from the note of sarcasm, he didn't really expect an answer. 

Abbey shook her head. "If anything, you're _too_ sane. But that's part of the problem. You're trying so hard to reason this out that you're missing the signs. You're slipping towards some kind of abyss, and we're trying to keep you from falling any further. Is that okay?" she asked honestly, yet with just a hint of impatience. 

"You're actually giving me the choice? I'm flattered." 

"We already _have_ given you that choice. We tried it your way, and look at the stellar results. Now will you please try it _our_ way, just for _once?_ " 

Instead of replying directly, Bartlet threw his next words at the third presence in the room. "Tell me, Admiral: if I _don't_ take this weekend off, will you use that tranquilizer after all? You said as much earlier. Don't think I didn't hear you." 

Morrow shifted in his seat, acutely uncomfortable at being accused of threatening his Commander-in-Chief. "Mr. President, I was never planning to administer a sedative against your will - which, incidentally, also happens to be against the law. Nor do I have plans to open that Pandora's box right now, either. I was hoping at the time that your Chief of Staff and the First Lady would succeed in calming you down to the point where you'd agree to a mild relaxant. Enough to help you fall sleep, not knock you out." 

"Yeah, sure. You could've kept me unconscious for the rest of the weekend and saved yourself a lot of trouble. After all, that letter is just lying around, waiting to be used. How considerate of me to get it ready for you in advance, right? The Cabinet will certainly thank you; that spares them the need for a vote or the risk of _losing_ a vote. By now it'll take a lot more than _another_ letter from me to be handed back the reins. It'll require my doctors' agreement as well - and you've got _that_ base covered just beautifully." 

Their Chief Executive ignored the twin gasps of disbelief. "All that's left for you to do now is call the _Vice_ President. Hoynes is just raring to go; he always has been. Why don't you give him the nuclear codes while you're at it? Pass the football to the next guy. Never mind that it contains the power to destroy this whole world. Never mind that I hold it as a sacred trust to the future _survival_ of this world!" 

At last he had voiced a previously unknown reason why he so deeply dreaded being taken out of office. Of course he wanted to keep his freedom: not just personal freedom from confinement, but also the freedom to work and be useful to society. Now he looked positively haunted by the concept of abandoning his direst duty, a duty that reached even beyond this nation. A duty to the entire human race. 

Everything has its fracture point, and Abbey hit hers right then. She stomped across the room and practically threw herself on her knees before her husband, forcing him to look at her. "For God's sake, Jed - why can't you believe me? You've never doubted my word in the past! WE'RE TRYING TO HELP YOU!" 

He countered with pain, with all of the injustice and defenselessness he felt. "Do you have the first idea what your version of help is doing to me?" 

"Do you honestly think we're doing this because we want to? We've got no other alternative left. And it hurts us as well - to know that whether we do something or do nothing at all, it's still going to end up hurting _you!_ " 

Off to one side, the bedroom door quietly opened and then closed. Jed gave it the merest glance; Abbey didn't appear to notice. 

"Then stop. Less stress for everyone." 

She uttered a short, humorless chuckle. "Not gonna happen, babe. I care about you just a little too much to give up on you, now or ever. Don't ask me to choose between you and your job; the White House wouldn't stand a chance. And before you say it, I'm not asking _you_ to choose either. You want to stay here. _We_ want you to stay here. We're bound and determined to be here for you - to protect you, the Presidency _and_ the nation." 

Abbey had to pause for breath after than impassioned tirade. "But there's a limit to everything." 

"Like today, huh?" Bartlet returned. "I can just imagine what the press are saying. You've got a real emotional cripple in the Oval Office." 

"Don't worry about it. C.J. covered your tail." His wife clamped her hands over his, pinning him in place, compelling him to hear her out. "Don't you see? There's no 'plot' going on here behind your back, either to remove you from power or anything else. If there were, we would've pulled it off long ago! God knows we've had enough excuse before this. And instead we're all sticking our necks out left and right to help. What more proof do you need?" 

She had an unassailable point. Slowly, the flame in those blue eyes subsided a few degrees. His head lowered, his visage for the first time showing just a bit of guilt in turn. 

Abbey asked for no more admission than that. At long last, she had made a tangible advance in the healing process. The rest would follow. 

She half-turned to convey this heartening triumph to the official physician who sat so quietly in the background, letting her do the job she did best. 

His chair was empty. 

Her brows descended. "Where's the Admiral?" 

Bartlet showed little interest. "He stepped out a minute ago." 

"I never heard him leave." Slowly, she started to smile. "I'll have to thank him for giving us a bit of privacy." 

Right then, the President must have grasped at last the sincerity behind this entire argument. First, that the Admiral wasn't too paranoid about his executive patient to risk leaving him for at least a little while... and second, that the First Lady was so intent on expressing her heart that she didn't care at the time if someone else _did_ overhear. 

"By the way..." Here Abbey _really_ smiled. "I haven't had the chance to thank _you._ For thinking of me in a danger moment." 

Her husband's sour attitude returned - although for a very different reason this time. "You expected otherwise?" 

Her voice glided from gentle strength to just gentleness. "Not in the least. But it's always nice to have it reinforced." 

He didn't quite smile back... but almost.

* * *

Okay, Lord, time to do some serious explaining. I think I've demonstrated a whole lot of tolerance here. Surely I deserve a little consideration by now. And You of all people know what we're going through. Think You can take the time to clear some of this up? Whatever happened to granting us Your Spirit of wisdom and understanding? Because frankly, I've never been so confused in my life. 


	15. Harbinger 15

**Harbinger**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** The President's health is breaking down at last - but what exactly is the cause?  
**Written:** Feb, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2002, between “Stirred” and “Enemies Foreign and Domestic 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 15 ~ 

Saturday - early morning. 

An absolutely essential element of human interaction is trust. We cannot hope to function as a society without it; we can't believe that corruption and deceit are dominant, or insist upon ironclad proof for _every_ aspect of our lives. Oh sure, everyone locks their doors and notarizes their legal documents... but you assume that the mechanic will fix your car properly, that the training process for your mechanic is properly regulated, and that the auto parts for your vehicle are properly constructed. 

Trust between family members is automatic. Trust between acquaintances, businesses and nations must be earned. Family trust can take a lot of punishment and still recover quickly. Non-familial trust is far harder to forge and far easier to destroy. In particular, one of the greatest pains in this life must be the agony felt by both student and mentor... when one seems to have let the other down. 

Anyone who works at the White House knows that they _never_ know for sure whether or not they'll have their weekend off, and they most often will find out on Friday at the earliest. At least, like most other businesses and governmental offices, on the weekend more casual attire is permitted. Ruth, however, chose not to take advantage of that privilege today, arriving in a smart though conservative sky-blue dress. She might well have felt that both her relative newness and her proximity to the Oval Office disqualified her from such a perk. 

Charlie had grown comfortable enough with his own role here to exploit the less strict dress code during his countless hours of overtime. When he arrived at reception this morning, or rather when he all but staggered into reception, he wore black jeans and a dark tailored shirt. 

That wasn't the sole reason behind his casual appearance, though. He moved slowly and listlessly, something he never did. His eyes were heavy; so were his feet. At least his buzz cut couldn't add to the general appearance of uncharacteristic disarray, to the evidence of utterly depleted resources. 

Ruth blinked at him in considerable wonder. "Good heavens, Charlie. Did you sleep at all last night?" 

"No." He slumped into his chair, and almost put his head right down on his desk. 

"You've been hanging around the President too much." 

He winced, badly. 

She noticed, and her attempt at humor vanished. "What's the matter?" 

"Nothing." 

These kinds of denials don't fool anyone. "What _happened?_ " 

"I don't want to talk about it." He wasn't just tired; he was depressed. 

If that didn't raise Ruth's suspicions about the cause of his insomnia, nothing would. "Charlie, if it involves _him,_ then I may _have_ to know about it." 

Slowly, he looked over at her. Of course the events in the Residence would never have been recounted to anyone else, except maybe to the Senior Staff, and then only if Leo deemed it necessary. Never, _ever_ had the President's personal aide and human shadow betrayed the confidence and privacy of his boss to anyone. However, Ruth did have a point regarding her role in the mechanics of the White House. Besides, it is a natural human need to share the downside of life with another, to unload and seek sympathy... for that makes pain more bearable - or at least less unbearable. Charlie exhaled, his resistance fading - 

Footsteps approached down the hall, more audible than usual due to the comparative quiet of the West Wing on a weekend. Both turned that way, in time to see a black-suited Secret Service agent walk past the doorway \- apparently without stopping. 

Both knew better, though, and rose to their feet. 

Sure enough, mere seconds later the President and the First Lady stepped into view. 

Contrary to expectations, he wore a standard navy business suit and she an equally proper earth-brown skirt-suit. Just like any other day. This was the weekend, and this was their home; they of all people should be entitled to go casual now and then. 

Her left arm was tucked almost formally into his, as though he intended both to escort her and to protect her. Still, a very astute observer might have wondered who was escorting whom right now. 

He limped just a bit... and a flesh-colored medical dressing rode upon his left temple. 

She smiled openly. A bit _too_ openly, perhaps? His expression seemed rather neutral, not admitting to any one emotion. 

Until, that is, he noticed Charlie. His features stilled even more, if that were possible. The mere sight of his body man was a blatant reminder of a not-so-distant moment of acute fear, helplessness, embarrassment and personal agony. 

For his part, the personal aide developed a painful kink in his forehead. In fact he shrank back a bit, as though in anticipation of a scathing reprimand... which for him would have every bit as much impact as a physical blow. 

Abbey nodded pleasantly to both employees, belying any discomfort in the air. "Good morning, Charlie. Ruth." 

As though taking cues from his wife, Bartlet did the same. "Thanks for coming in." He kept his voice level, still not giving anything away. His standard wave for them to resume their seats lacked its usual generous nature. 

Ruth inclined her head in turn. "Of course, sir." 

Charlie did not move. _Could_ not move. 

The body man and the executive secretary watched their leaders enter the Oval Office and close the door behind them. 

Ruth sat first. "He looks a little more rested," she observed quietly, almost nervously. "But why the Band-Aid? I assume that limp is from the nose-dive at the university, but I hadn't heard that he'd banged his head as well." 

Slumping dejectedly into his chair, Charlie did not answer. 

Before Ruth could pursue her point, or give up and turn back to her work, the white office door opened again. Again, both swung around, all attention. 

Abbey emerged alone, and shut the portal after her. 

She at once gestured for them not to rise - but she didn't smile now. "Just so you know, we're leaving for Manchester right after lunch." 

One would have been hard-pressed to say which of the pair appeared more astonished. This was a major departure from the schedule - indeed, from the norm. 

"We'll be back Monday morning," Abbey went on casually, as though the level of tension in this area hadn't just skyrocketed. "The President had a fair night's sleep, but he really does need to get away from it all for at least a couple of days." 

Ruth recovered first. "Yes, ma'am. I'll make the adjustments to the President's schedule for that morning." 

"Thank you." 

Then Abbey stepped right up to Charlie's desk and gazed down at him. She could very well be the shortest person in the White House, and normally when she walked in everyone stood. But even without that honor, she tended to dominate a room - just as her husband did. 

Her volume lowered. Her eyes were very soft. "How are you doing?" 

No one could take that for a mere social overture. She had more than enough on her mind already, but her heart was plenty big enough to consider the suffering of the other players in this drama... and to reassure them that she attached no blame. 

However, some things are too painful to even acknowledge. "I'm fine, ma'am." 

"Oh, really?" From that arched eyebrow she didn't believe him for one instant. "Now listen to me. You don't have to come with us if you'd rather not. But I don't want you to worry, either. Everything's going to be all right. _Everything._ " 

Compassion and confidence filled those quiet words. If she believed them, then no one else had the right to doubt. Charlie swallowed... and nodded. 

"Okay. I'll see you later." The First Lady switched her smile back on and took her leave. 

Several seconds passed in total silence. 

At last Ruth gave up on maintaining this charade. "The First Couple almost never instigate sudden travel plans." 

Charlie didn't meet her eye. "I know." 

"Never mind the schedule; it's too much of a _risk._ " 

"Yeah." He watched the door to their leader's office. 

"There has to be a very good reason." 

He just kept staring at that door, waiting for something. Endlessly long seconds marched past. The strain to his posture mounted. 

"Come on," he whispered. "Get it over with. Chew me out _now._ " 

Still nothing. 

Then suddenly he could stand the wait no longer. He rose, went to the portal, tapped cautiously, and let himself in. 

"Mr. President?" 

Already bent over a desk-load of papers, Bartlet did not look at him. "Yeah?" 

There could be no question about _this_ truth: short of locking him in his bedroom and disconnecting the phone, the only way to stop The Man from working was to take him out of the White House entirely. 

"Sir..." For once Charlie was totally hesitant about being here. He took a few timid steps forward... like a condemned prisoner walking towards the gallows. 

And braked hard. The right hand was quite visible, even from six yards feet away. Just below the cuff, deep purple bruises stood out on the wrist in stark relief. 

Charlie's body stiffened. His eyes grew wide. Those bruises... had been inflicted by him. 

"What is it?" his boss pressed vaguely, concentrating on other things. 

He had to try three times before his throat would permit any sound past all the guilt. 

"Sir... I want to really... really apologize. For last night." 

"Oh, that. Forget about it." 

The President's tone was utterly devoid of inflection. No anger, no blame... but likewise no warmth, no real forgiveness. No _trust._ And still he didn't look at his personal aide. 

He had no need to issue a verbal rebuke; his aura of sheer _hurt_ did that all on its own. 

Charlie hung his head. "I'm sorry," was all he could say. Sorry for _everything._

For a moment Bartlet paused, though his eyes remained on his desktop. "Actually, I think I'm the one who should be apologizing to _you._ " 

Something in his words - no, in his voice - was tangibly wrong. Not his willingness to admit to an error, but a weary and tragic _emptiness_ of the very soul. 

Few things could ever seem so totally unnatural in this man. Everyone who knew him agreed that he possessed one of the largest souls they'd ever met. 

This... was desolation. 

His body man couldn't endure these waves of empathic pain any longer. He backed away, as he never had before - leader of the free world notwithstanding - and left without another word. 

Toby was waiting outside when Charlie hurriedly exited. 

"Can I...?" He pointed at the door the younger man had just closed. 

Surprisingly, a touch of relief forced its way past the anguish on Charlie's dark features. "Hey, Toby. Can you walk for a minute? I've gotta talk." He headed out at once, not really waiting for a reply. 

The Communications Director thought about this for two protracted heartbeats... then shrugged and followed. Ruth watched them go, one eyebrow canted in clear puzzlement.

* * *

This is awful. I can't even relax around Charlie anymore. 

Maybe they were right last night after all. 

God - what if they _are?_

In a few hours I'll be leaving the White House. For how long, _really?_ Is this the first step towards removing me from it _permanently?_

If they do, what on earth will be left for me? 

What will be left _of_ me? 

I don't care _who_ says this is the most powerful job in the world. It's got to be the _loneliest_ job! I'm at center stage in the eyes of the country and the entire global community. There's no one to truly share the burden... or the blame. 

I've tried so hard to fight that isolation. I work _with_ my people. I _share_ with my people. But now... when they won't trust me, and I can't trust them... 

I really am alone.

* * *

For decades, cartoonists have depicted bright ideas and dawning knowledge with a light bulb over the head. Most of us have experienced such a moment, when new inspiration pokes through the clouds like a ray of sunshine. However, that does not compare to genuine insight. Fully comprehensive, almost divine revelation resembles a bolt of lightning. It is when hidden motives explode into view and whole patterns slam into place, all in one overwhelming heartbeat. It hits you in the solar plexus, steals your breath and makes your head pound. Plus, it brings out the difficult choices so that they cannot be ignored. It can be both wondrous and frightening. 

The point is this: for all its unanticipated and unnerving impact, it is a gift. It comes rarely, it comes hard, and you must never downplay its value. 

"Margaret!" Leo's voice carried easily to the outer office. He liked using the intercom as much as his Commander-in-Chief did. Less than four seconds later his assistant arrived to receive her orders. 

"Send this back to the Energy Secretary's office, will you?" He handed her a thick sheaf of papers. "I'm sick of playing telephone tag. I need an answer on the amendment, and I need it before lunch." 

"At once." She departed with alacrity. 

"Nothing like a last-minute flight plan to light a fire under everyone's ass," the Chief of Staff muttered aloud, flipping through the files before him. "We should do this more often." 

Not that he meant that for one instant. He would rather die than have to do what he was about to do to his old friend. This was merely a welling of the black humor born from despair. 

"Leo." 

His head rose, in mild embarrassment at being overheard - and perhaps also in surprise at who had overheard him. 

Toby stood on the threshold, hands in pockets, weight carefully balanced. He looked just a bit unsure of himself, a substantial irregularity. 

"May I speak with you?"

* * *

Saturday - noon. 

In nature, at least among mammals, the concept of loyalty is often quite different from how people perceive it. Juveniles adhere to their herd or pack while learning their woodcraft, but a large percentage will then migrate to avoid inbreeding. Some species mate for life, and there is certainly loyalty there; but those species are the exceptions, and when one dies the other does not pine away. A specific territory may be preferred, and fought for against invaders, but will almost certainly be abandoned as soon as the food supply fails. Any kind of devotion that threatens survival rather than supporting it has no place in the wild. 

Only humanity has learned to hold fast to family, land, religion, politics and achievements at the cost of all else, even life itself. This can be a display either of great valor - or of great foolishness. In much the same way, only humans have developed the concept of _dis_ loyalty, of sundering ties and dismissing vows for convenience or gain... for such is found nowhere else on this earth. 

There was nothing unusual about any of the West Wing staff working through lunch or supper to meet a deadline. In the case of a group session, most often the Roosevelt Room would be requisitioned; the mess was far too public to talk business. The gang would gather around this highly-polished table in this beautifully decorated room, alternating between reports and cafeteria trays - or, on very late nights, take-out packages. Somehow the atmosphere always seemed a bit more relaxed over food. 

Not so _this_ day. 

There was also nothing unusual about the staff coming into work on the weekend. The constant regime of business suits was uncomplicated, yet stifling. Most of them happily enjoyed the occasional privilege of wandering White House halls in casual attire, as though it were a reward for the constant formality of the weekday. Of course, relaxing around the most powerful office in the world never came easily, even in the best of times. 

The best of times this was not. 

"The Lancelot plan will be operational by next month latest." Leo would normally have occupied the chair at one end of the long table. Instead he paced that half of the room, slowly yet constantly, too nervous to sit. 

"Fine." At the opposite end, fully fifteen feet away, the President presided alone. 

He took notes, exactly like usual, as though nothing had changed. But something vital _had_ changed. He never looked up, even when someone spoke to him. There was an almost visible barrier between him and his most trusted advisors, as there never had been before in their entire career together. No one - not even Leo - dared approach him. 

Josh sat to the right of Leo's vacant seat. "We're getting the first whispers in on reviving the literacy initiative. Positive ones." He wore a plain gray turtleneck - the exact shade of a dull, overcast sky. He munched halfheartedly, and persisted in running his hands through his hair, which was getting more disheveled each time. 

"Good." Bartlet's responses remained terse, noncommittal. The five attempted earnestly to maintain a normal flow of conversation, to sound bright, businesslike and normal. Their leader didn't even try, just generally apathetic throughout the entire meeting. 

Various trays from the mess littered this flawless table, interspersed between piles of reports. It would have been a challenge to say how much attention was really directed towards either. One subject dominated all six minds present - a subject not in writing anywhere. 

Leo hadn't touched his meal... and the President ignored his as well. 

Sam sat beside Josh. "The Drive Clean Committee is confident it'll be done by Monday." He wore a black cotton shirt - one color he almost always avoided, what with his midnight hair. He made a show of eating his own meal, as though this act might help lighten things up somehow. Even so, he couldn't stop fidgeting. 

"Uh-huh." Bartlet turned the page, his whole attitude distant and despairing. 

None of them dared relax - rather, they all sat like coiled springs. Leo's strides were short and choppy, without purpose save to offer some vent for the pervading strain on all sides. The atmosphere climbed inexorably towards critical pressure. The discomfort, anxiety, sorrow and pity seemed to suck the air right out of this chamber. 

Toby sat across from Josh. "I'm meeting with the chair of Bill 545 on Tuesday." He still wore a jacket, if over a slightly more casual shirt, and no tie - always reluctant to kick back. He kept his eyes downcast, just sneaking glances up now and then. 

"Have at it." Normally Bartlet would say that in such a way as to resemble a call to battle, an unleashing of one of the fiercest hounds in his pack. Today it sounded more like a surrender of any influence he might once have enjoyed. 

This must be what it's like to see your friendships, your hard-won accomplishments, your lifelong dream crumble around you. It had become painfully clear that, for the first time ever, Bartlet could not bring himself to let down his guard, to trust, to open up to any of them. For their part, they plainly feared that if they didn't do _something,_ they might lose him altogether. These two teams of five against one were utterly polarized. 

C.J. sat across from Sam. "The medical biohazard discussion is getting itself sorted out." She wore a V-neck sweater over a pale blouse, the only bright spot in this entire room. Her hands never stayed still, fingering papers, pens and carrot sticks. 

"About time." Bartlet rubbed his forehead. The dressing on his temple could hardly be missed... and now his shirt cuff pulled back enough to reveal the ring of bruises as well. 

No one dared comment. 

Yesterday's acute bout of shell shock had long since passed, but the actual condition couldn't dematerialize so fast. The Man's behavior had a brittle edge. That, and these wounds, would only reinforce his staffers' growing conviction that they needed to send him away for his own good... and of course he could feel their determination in turn. The sadness, defeat and depression came from all sides. 

"What about the press?" Leo assumed tacit control of this ordeal, much as he hated doing so. Obviously the President believed that _he_ was not in control of anything anymore. 

So rarely did the Chief of Staff ever dress down that people noticed at once when he did. In this instance it was precisely because he hadn't, while all the others had, that drew attention. Of course, the one other person present who had also retained the standard business attire, as though this were a regular working day, was the President himself. 

That only served to accentuate the abnormality... and the conflict. 

"The GW thing was all over the news last night, of course, and all over the papers this morning," C.J. reported with annoyance. "You really can't expect otherwise. The smokescreen is holding, although my last briefing was less fun than usual. A pack of killer whales has nothing on the Press Corps when they're in a mood like this." 

She did not add aloud that just the constant reminder in the media of how he had reacted would hardly do Bartlet any favors. 

"Nothing scathing yet," Toby added as an aside. "And there shouldn't be. A popped balloon is a fairly loud sound. The Service itself has made that mistake before." 

He checked his watch, discreetly. 

"Plus, it's perfectly understandable that a man who lives in constant danger - and who's already been shot once before - would jump at a loud report," Sam reminded them. That may not have been the most diplomatic comment to make in the Chief Executive's presence, but it was true. 

Leo checked his watch as well. 

"In fact," Josh interposed, "there's a positive side to all of this. No one can call the President a coward. He was trying to protect his wife. What more natural and decent..." 

Bartlet stopped writing. Even with his head bowed, the other five could see the sudden shift in his expression. All at once the temperature in this room dropped several degrees. 

"You dare put a political spin on the life of the First Lady?" His tone was deadly soft and coldly furious. 

Josh went pale in an instant. He'd made this same kind of mistake before. He opened his mouth to stammer an apology - 

Leo's beeper went off, loud in the awful quiet. 

"Go ahead and answer it." Bartlet made that sound like a dismissal. He paged through his files for the next pertinent report. 

The Chief of Staff peered at its small numeric display, his visage carefully composed. "Nah, it'll keep." He returned the device to his belt. 

"The rest of us won't be at each others' throats the moment our chaperone steps outside," their leader observed with deceptive mildness. And still he didn't raise his head. 

Leo came close to a grin right then. "Whoever it is, the President ranks them." 

Bartlet closed his portfolio firmly. "In that case I'm going to make use of my _attributed_ rank and go back to my office. I want to get _some_ productive work done before I'm hauled out of my own House." Continuing to avoid eye contact, he rose. 

Those seated rose as well. If they felt stung by that not-so-subtle critique, they didn't let on. 

Leo tried not to come across as petulant either. "Thank you, Mr. President." 

"See you Monday, sir." Ever the optimist in this bunch, Sam couldn't help himself. 

En route to the door, Bartlet stopped. Turned. Swept the room's occupants with his fiery gaze. 

"That's by no means a sure thing. It all depends upon my jailers." 

He didn't actually _name_ his jailers. If he had, would any of these five, his closest colleagues, have dodged the list? 

Then the President of the United States threw open the portal and left, the picture of both dignity and resignation. Limping just a bit, despite his best effort to hide it. 

Five pairs of eyes silently watched him go, watched the door swing shut after him. 

C.J. broke first, suddenly. "Is anyone besides me reminded of that painting, 'Stag at Bay'?" 

They all turned to her in varying degrees of wonder. 

"You know: strong noble animal, branching antlers, king of the forest - cornered by hounds? Vastly outnumbered, fighting for his life?" 

"Hounds or wolves?" Sam asked curiously. "I think I've seen a couple different versions of that theme." 

She let one hand flop onto the table. "I'm not sure which is worse. The wolves want to eat the stag. The hounds are in it purely for sport." 

"Well, we're neither. We're on _his_ side!" 

C.J.'s tone grew positively tremulous. "He doesn't believe that anymore." 

Toby did not contribute to this bleak topic, sunk in his own brooding thoughts. 

Josh had other ideas as well. "The limp I can understand, but the bruises? The Band-Aid? Leo, what _else_ happened?" 

He had everyone's attention for sure. 

The bright lights overhead cast sharp-edged shadows upon Leo's stern features.

* * *

God, what a mess. I've never in my life been in such an impossible situation. 

What can I do now? How can I even try to function as President when I can't work with my closest staffers - and friends? 

What steps will they take next? 

What steps can _I_ take? I have the right and the need to defend myself _and_ this office! 

BUT I CAN'T RUN THIS NATION WITHOUT THEM!

* * *

Complacency is the bane of a productive life. It breeds sloth, uncaring and a lack of preparedness for the future, which is dangerous even in the most prosperous times. For some, the same old routine can be almost unbearably painful, so that they go to extreme lengths for a new challenge. Yet all of us on occasion find great comfort in the known and predictable... especially in uncertain moments when things feel strange and we lose our usual compass guides. 

Yet it can sometimes be in those uncertain moments where routine and predictability must be contested the most: when the familiar and comfortable penetrate our guard, just when we expect them to be our greatest reassurance. 

"Thanks for the advice, Donna." Ruth jotted down a few notes. 

"Oh, my pleasure." Donna stood in front of the secretary's desk, shifting her feet awkwardly. "I'm not trying to be patronizing or anything, you know. I just want to help out..." 

"I know, and I appreciate it." 

Charlie, in his chair, still huddled under a cloud of his own discomfort, suddenly cleared his throat. Both women turned at once. For Donna, that meant a one-eighty pivot. 

The President strode into reception, alone and - judging from his dark expression - in a foul mood. He passed between Donna and Charlie without a glance at either, oblivious to how Charlie stood and Donna stepped back. 

"Ruth, could you come in when you have a moment." That was not a request. 

"Of course, sir." She quickly rose as well and gathered up some papers. 

Donna flushed. "I am so sorry for taking up your time." Her eyes darted anxiously to the threshold beyond which their Chief Executive had already vanished. 

"It's all right." The executive secretary smiled and headed into the Oval Office. 

Donna waited until the door closed, then let out a very unhappy sigh. 

"You know, I don't think he trusts _me_ anymore, either." Her voice almost broke. If her face grew any longer, it would have reached to the floor. 

Charlie nodded slowly. "Join the club." 

On the other side of that door, Ruth crossed the carpeted Seal. "How did your staff meeting go, Mr. President?" 

Bartlet dropped his files onto the blotter and uttered something close to a growl. "A waste of time, that's what it was." 

"Really?" She placed a couple of reports before him. "What was it about?" 

He shrugged absently. "Oh, the medical biohazard initiative... the _literacy_ initiative... the latest armaments package... and some other damn fool things. Basically just tying up loose threads for the start of next week." He sat down and propped both elbows on the desktop, drained of all energy. "Just in case I'm not back to deal with them myself." 

Ruth scoffed. "Of course you'll be back, sir! There's nothing wrong that some rest and recreation won't cure. You deserve a break more than anyone else here." 

"Don't _you_ start too!" His bright blue vision flared in outrage... and then dimmed, essentially out of fuel. "Aw, hell. How am I supposed to know that? No one trusts me anymore. _I_ can't trust me!" 

She didn't flinch. "Well, sir, _I_ certainly trust you." 

"You're kind of in the minority today. But thanks for the vote of confidence." 

The leader of the free world leaned into his plush leather chair, let his head fall back, closed his eyes, and released an exhalation of pure weariness. Then, with masochistic determination, he reached for more work. 

"Let me help, sir," Ruth offered graciously. She circled the "Resolute" desk, entering that ultra-restricted area to stand at his shoulder. "This is from the Canadian High Commission, on the latest border security measures..." 

Her steady, modulated voice was calming, like an anchor to the normal routine, especially after the unendurable stress of the meeting from which he'd just come. It had an almost soporific effect on his strung-out nerves. 

Suddenly suspicious, Bartlet paused, removed his glasses and looked full at this woman. "Say, if you happened to notice during one of these sessions - or any other time, for that matter - that I wasn't right on the ball, I sure hope you'd tell me." 

Ruth straightened her short silver hair, looking nervous that she'd been asked such a direct and telling question. "Certainly I would. Discreetly, of course. But I wouldn't hide the truth from you, sir." 

He exhaled, releasing another few notches of tension. "Good. I've had more than enough of everyone protecting me, even when they're so sure they're _helping_ me." 

"You may safely trust me." Ruth's voice was soft, earnest... compelling, with a slight resonance that filled the Oval Office. 

"Of course I do," the President replied automatically. His own voice sounded just a bit slow, almost dreamy. Curious. 

Blinking, he returned his attention to the paper before him. He couldn't quite remember what it was about - even though he'd just read it a moment ago. "Now where was I?" He reached for his glasses. 

"This will abolish the House of Representatives in Congress," Ruth explained helpfully. "It only needs your signature." 

"Oh." That made perfect sense. He blinked again, then nodded. "Okay." 

His pen headed for the bottom line. 

_EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE_

So abruptly that both jumped, an electronic whine split the air around them. 

A fire alarm? No; this shrillness was quite unfamiliar. Somewhat like when a microphone gets too close to a speaker - but much higher and much louder. And exceedingly unpleasant. 

"What the hell is that?" Bartlet demanded to no one in particular. He glanced about, but there was no sign of the cause anywhere. 

Ruth did not answer, turning in all directions with an expression of confusion - even fear. Probably she couldn't hear him over that horrid shriek; he could hardly hear himself. 

He rose quickly and moved around his desk, wincing at the relentless, piercing bombardment of sound. Both volume and pitch increased to unbearable levels. Now it seemed to ring right inside his skull, causing waves of frightful audio and _mental_ pain that made him gasp and try to hold his head together. He staggered towards the nearest door, but there was no escape, as before his eyes the room started to tilt... and darken... 


	16. Harbinger 16

**Harbinger**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** The President's health is breaking down at last - but what exactly is the cause?  
**Written:** Feb, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2002, between “Stirred” and “Enemies Foreign and Domestic 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 16 ~ 

Saturday - _when?_

When a person faints, the body often lapses into a most peculiar state of suspended perception. Hearing is the first to return; sight, memory and physical sensation follow much more slowly. The brain receptors are not yet all online, and as a result the initial sounds have no meaning. One may be conscious, if not aware, for several seconds before opening the eyes, processing bits and pieces of random information without sequence. It is common to be utterly convinced that one is waking from a natural sleep in one's own bed. 

The reality is quite jarring. 

"... any minute now..." 

"... simply cannot believe..." 

"Nobody ever..." 

"What will the press..." 

"... only if one of us..." 

"... chance of _that!_ " 

"... custody..." 

"... a necktie party if you ask..." 

"... shudder to think what the aftereffects..." 

"Hang on." All of these voices seemed familiar in some way, but this last one was even more so. A woman's, very close, and dominant in its note of concern. "I think we have movement here." 

Jed Bartlet's eyes opened... and blinked. 

The torturous whine had vanished. The surrounding quiet was profound. 

It took two full heartbeats, though, to realize what he was looking at: a three-dimensional white-on-white image of the Great Seal. 

He blinked some more, but it didn't go away. That wasn't the ceiling of the First Bedroom. That could only be the ornate plaster decor of the Oval Office. 

This knowledge had the same effect as a slap of cold water. 

Physical signs marched by in sequence. His vision sharpened. His brows descended. His whole body shivered a bit at the frisson of shock. His throat moved convulsively. 

"God." His voice sounded pale and hoarse. "Not _again._ " 

He knew this view, unfortunately. It meant he had to be lying flat on his back on the Oval carpet... for the second time in his administration. 

He became aware of the hard floor against his spine and under his head; he could hear the light whisper of clothing as people moved about not far away. Familiar sensations all. 

His eyes closed, against the light and against the embarrassment that was certain to follow. 

"Okay, I've seen this movie before." His words gradually gained in strength. And sarcasm. "Whose idea was it to show the rerun?" 

"Why, Jed. How many times have you said that good movies are even better the second time around?" 

That could only be one person. He looked up again... and Abbey's face loomed over him: smiling, upside down, and less than two feet away. 

This didn't make sense. To pull all of that off at the same time, she had to be seated on the floor near his head. 

Her husband frowned, still groping mentally for some semblance of equilibrium. "Your definition of 'good' leaves much to be desired, sweetheart. For sure it's not _so_ good that we might actually be alone." 

As though that comment constituted an invitation, two men stepped into the lower range of his sight: Leo, and Admiral Morrow. They seemed to tower above him from a huge distance, weirdly out of proportion. 

The Chief of Staff wore a quiet yet expressive grin, as though a crushing weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "Good to see you, Mr. President." 

This unaccounted-for satisfaction only cranked up the burner under Bartlet's annoyance. "Wish I could return the compliment - but I'm not real big on humiliation. So, everyone else might as well come out of the woodwork now, 'cause I know they're here." 

Sure enough, shuffling feet and concerned faces edged closer... until, rolling his head sideways, he counted five more. Faces he knew well. Faces looking uniformly uncomfortable: almost as uncomfortable as _he_ was. Faces of people who had seen him like this before. 

That reminder didn't do much to ease the mortification, the self-disgust. No hope of avoiding it; he just had to make the best of it. 

"I might as well admit that I've always liked how you guys look up to me. Somehow... it's less fun the other way." 

Smiles bloomed on all sides - in amusement, and in relief. 

"Your humor and your lack of disorientation are both good signs, Mr. President," Morrow said. He made no effort to crowd in and take official medical control... a fair indication that nothing could be too wrong. 

" _Thank_ you. Can I get up now?" 

"Just don't move too fast," Abbey advised. "You've taken a pounding." 

"You're telling _me._ " 

"You're damned right I'm telling you." She wouldn't want to be overly demonstrative in front of the others. However, nothing could quench the warmth in her eyes - much less so trivial a fact as having witnesses who knew them well - as she steadied her husband by the shoulders and helped him ease into a sitting position. In fact she scooted a bit closer so that he could lean against her. 

Nothing could have been more natural to them both. Even the memory of the single most distressing week in their mutual lives failed to change that. For the moment Bartlet made no effort to object, or distance himself, or reinstate the tension of these past days. Right now he needed her, and he knew it. 

As carefully as he had sat up, he now evaluated his circumstances. 

If the plaster Seal was directly above, then the stitched version had to be right underneath. Sure enough, the First Couple both occupied that beautifully-intricate full-color design, as though it were a customized lounging cushion for a sultan and his wife. 

Methodically, Bartlet checked himself out. He still wore his suit jacket, but his tie had been removed and his shirt collar opened. His hair was a bit mussed, yet his head sported no new lumps and he didn't have double vision. Apparently he'd managed to avoid cracking his skull _this_ time - unlike last night. 

He could _think._

His hands trembled, ever so slightly. 

Closing them into fists didn't help. 

"Don't worry," Abbey said at once, not missing a thing. "It's perfectly natural to feel shaky after a faint. Nothing more than that." 

Surely he wasn't the _only_ one to sigh in alleviation. 

This circle of sympathetic spectators - Leo, Morrow, Josh, Toby, C.J. and Sam - made neither move nor comment. They looked fully prepared to stand there all day, at a courteous distance and silently waiting, if that was how long it took their leader to recover. 

They also seemed inordinately happy about this entire situation. Grins lingered on all sides... as though everything had just clicked back to normal. 

If it _had,_ it did so without their leader's direct cooperation or even knowledge. Since when did "normal" involve him crash-landing on his own office floor? 

For some reason, the First Lady's well-known patience in public never applied to her dealings with her husband. "Stop keeping us in suspense, Jed. How do you feel?" 

That painfully familiar question hurled the President straight back into the old defensiveness, frustration and suspicion that had become so ingrained over this past week. "Oh, I'm _great._ " He sounded like even he didn't believe it any longer. " _Obviously_ there's nothing wrong with me. So, are we leaving for Manchester now? No sense in putting it off any longer. I've provided you with all the extra incentive you could desire. Right here." 

Surprisingly, no one seemed anxious to act on that cutting challenge. There was no sense of triumph in executive capitulation, or polite indulgence in executive whim. Instead, every face fell: shifting rapidly from relief to surprise... and then to deflation. 

The barriers hadn't come down quite yet. 

Well, why should they? Nothing had changed - except that the Chief Executive of the United States had just added fresh reinforcement to every concern ever expressed about his fitness. 

"That might not be necessary after all, Mr. President," Leo announced - soberly, yet with a subtle lilt of long-forgotten hope. "We've found the problem. And solved it." 

Bartlet's frown deepened - not in anger, but in wariness. At least now he could guess at part of the reason behind those early grins. Still, he'd had the rug pulled out from under him once too often this week to accept anything on face value. "You have?" 

"We think so." Typical of both a military man and a doctor, Morrow was rather more cautious. "But we'd like some confirmation. How _are_ you feeling? Please be frank with us, sir; we need to know." There was no real way to ease the bluntness of that question. 

Somehow Abbey held herself in place and let the official MD have his say. However, her supporting arm might have tightened just a bit. 

"Of course you do." Her husband did not scale back the bite in his tone. He leaned heavily on the shield of his internal armor, and took his time taking inventory. 

"I'm physically tired. I'd swear my body is several pounds heavier than usual, and I've got a wicked headache. But nothing else, really. My mind feels quite clear otherwise." 

He paused, considering, and displayed a hint of confusion. "In fact, it might actually be a bit clearer than what I last remember." 

This time Abbey's arm definitely tightened - not in trepidation but in joy. "Now that is terrific to hear." 

"I'm glad you agree. Now, can I get _up?_ " 

"Oh, I think we can permit that." 

No one advanced to help, which could be seen as both reassuring and suspicious - that they wanted to grant him some dignity, or that they wanted to see if he _could_ do it himself. Long-standing anxiety could not be switched off in so short an interval. Either way, Bartlet rose to his feet unaided. 

Did he sway a fraction? 

"Orthostatic hypotension," Abbey deciphered at once, gently taking his arm to steady him. "A sudden drop in blood pressure. Happens to most of us when we stand too quickly. Don't pretend you don't feel it; I can tell." 

"Just so long as it's nothing more than that," he muttered, shaking off the brief spell. At least he didn't pull out of her grip, but he didn't give any sign of welcoming it either. 

She guided him towards the couch. "This wasn't a case of dizziness, low blood sugar, flu or anything else. You've really been through the coffee grinder, honey." She of all people wasn't afraid to remind him. "You're entitled to some weariness." 

"I appreciate being granted permission." 

Once seated again - this time on furniture designed for that purpose - and with his wife beside him, the President surveyed his office and its occupants. Even Leo kept a careful distance, as though afraid that any approach would be misinterpreted as exerting control. The four senior staffers lined up behind the other sofa like so many soldiers awaiting orders - except for their casual Saturday uniforms - making no attempt to sit, plainly on edge. 

As if this gaggle of spectators wasn't enough, Bartlet finally noticed Charlie, further in the background, his dark skin not hiding his tense expression. Beside him was Donna, who looked even more uneasy if that were possible. And near the closed door that led into reception stood Ron, a pillar of strength and dedication. 

Figures: there were a _few_ people in the White House who didn't witness his first collapse more than two years ago, so of course they had to be here for _this_ one. 

The Commander-in-Chief settled back, exhausted, smarting from discomposure and plagued by questions. Neither detail could be hidden, so there was no point pretending. He remained on guard, and just a bit withdrawn. "Well, the gang's all here. Does this mean I'm entitled to an explanation?" 

"What do you last remember?" Leo asked, gently. 

It was a very important question. They all knew it, including Bartlet himself. 

"Let me see. A torturous meeting." His staffers looked guilty. "A paper I had to sign." He glanced automatically towards his desk. "And a shrieking sound that tried to split open my skull." He massaged his aching forehead. "What _was_ that sound, anyway?" 

Ron stepped forward. Everyone moved aside for him. "Mr. President, I owe you an apology." 

Bright blue eyes narrowed. "You do?" 

"That loud sound was my fault." 

Abbey's dark brown eyes narrowed as well. 

The head of White House security had to be one of very few people in the world who could withstand the First Lady's protective ire. Even so, he did look just a bit contrite. "Yes, sir. I was trying to surreptitiously record the signal from a hidden transmitter. The two devices accidentally created a feedback wave." He hesitated, very much unlike him. "No one had ever suspected any risk to you in this effort to gain evidence." 

Having just leaned forward and dipped his head a few degrees to make it easier to rub that aching forehead, Bartlet solidified. Then, slowly, he lifted only his eyes. 

"Evidence of what?" One beat of cold realization. "And against _whom?_ " 

It was Leo who accepted the responsibility of dropping the bomb. "Ruth." 

The President did not move a muscle. 

No one else in the room showed any surprise. Obviously Ron had had sufficient time to relate the bare bones of the situation when they all gathered around their unconscious leader. 

Leo sounded absolutely void of doubt. "Sir, she's been brainwashing you." 

Dead silence. 

Inch by inch, Bartlet sat back again. His face closed down against the slightest display of emotion. 

"Oh, _really._ " 

"Yes, sir," Ron endorsed. "We believe, from the first day she started working here two weeks ago." 

More silence. 

Morrow leaped into that sudden conversational void, glad to provide the medical data. "I don't know why we didn't reach this conclusion sooner, Mr. President. Mental conditioning is a genuine diagnostic tool, and an effective method of both clinical and self-help treatment. When used correctly, that is - and morally. But anything good can be warped. It opens the door to the brain itself." 

Pause. 

What person of any intelligence would enjoy being informed of such a "treatment"? Especially a man as strong-willed and self-possessed as this one? 

"What you're saying is that none of this was my fault after all," Bartlet pondered aloud. "Well, that certainly is not unwelcome news on _my_ part." Then his features grew positively ominous. "But the _reason_ it wasn't my fault is because I was being manipulated." Mortification and rage increased apace. "Deprived of even the most basic self-control. Reduced to a virtual puppet." 

What human being, much less a leader, would fail to take offense at the knowledge that he or she had been subjected to such an indignity? 

The President fastened his gaze on a far wall, again establishing some distance between him and the others present. "As if I haven't been through enough already, you finally present me with the solution - and it's just about the worst solution it possibly _could_ be." 

He exhaled, almost vibrating with both degradation and wrath. "Anyone _else_ want a tour of my brain? I'm obviously open for business. The welcome mat is out; waltz right in. Although by now I doubt there's much left to see." 

"No one would accuse you of being easily influenced, sir," Morrow emphasized. "It's not as though you have an open mind in the psychological sense; far from it. This sort of thing can't be done overnight. It takes many days of constant effort, even when the patient is willing. But if you regularly subject _any_ person to subliminal messages, sooner or later they will sink in and have an effect. The brain is a lot like a computer at times. When it's told what to do in just the right way, it obeys. And the funny thing is, the more intelligent minds tend to be more susceptible." 

" _I_ fail to see anything funny here. It's less of a compliment than it once was. And I suppose you have proof of this little experiment?" 

Ron nodded. "Yes, sir. I found Ruth's collection of tapes and transmitters in her desk. If you turn up the volume, you can recognize her voice." 

So that was that. Bartlet couldn't avoid the inevitable inference, and all the personal ramifications that accompanied it. His shoulders sagged a bit more. 

Abbey leaned closer, trying silently to ease the burden of revelation... or at least share it. After all, it was a lot of information to assimilate in a very short period of time - and extremely disconcerting information at that. 

Morrow must have judged that the whole picture would be better than a partial image. "Your secretary went about it very methodically. She carried a small tape player and a transmitter with her all the time, and whenever you were around she'd switch it on. She would have started with a simple, fairly neutral message at first, just below the conscious audio range, in order to accustom you to hearing her voice on a _sub_ conscious level. Of course anyone else present would have picked up this broadcast as well, but none of them were subjected to it regularly." He hesitated. "Except Charlie, that is." 

All heads swung towards the personal aide. 

"Both because he was around you, and because he was around _her._ " 

Charlie must already have grasped this distasteful fact; his whole attitude proclaimed embarrassment and dereliction of duty. 

Not unlike the President's posture right now, as a matter of fact. 

Ron picked up the narrative. "Later on, she hid a transmitter under your desk in here, well out of sight. Of course we sweep the place periodically, so we're assuming that she planted it each morning and retrieved it at night. It's small, with one sticky surface, and wouldn't take more than three seconds to attach or remove." 

"She started her day almost as early as you did," Leo inserted. "And she made a point of staying later. There were lots of occasions where she was unsupervised, and no one would have thought anything strange about her coming in here alone to leave things for you." 

"At this stage, she essentially had your ear for a huge part of the day," Morrow resumed. "This office _is_ where you spend most of your time. After several days of steady conditioning, she would have weakened your natural defenses to the point where the real suggestions could begin. Anyone else in here with you would have heard it too, a bit - but not much by comparison." 

"On the other hand, these signals would have had at least _some_ effect on us as well," Leo pointed out. "Making all of us more apt to argue. Which, of course, would cause more tension all round." His face darkened. No one likes to be used. 

The Senior Staff members exchanged glances. Josh looked the most horrified, Toby the most ferocious. Sam kept blinking in disbelief. C.J.'s lip curled into a snarl. 

"I haven't had a chance yet to listen to the tapes myself," Morrow said. "But, from the results we've all seen, I can hazard a good estimate of what they contain. They would have been urging you to work harder, to sleep less, to doubt yourself, and eventually to distrust everyone around you. Your job is stressful enough, but _that_ stress wasn't the reason why you were gradually slipping more and more out of character." 

At the word "distrust" The Man's interest level rose a few notches, and there might have been the first sign of hopeful belief in his eyes. Seeing this, the Admiral continued with increased enthusiasm. 

"This 'treatment' affected your attention span, your memory... It also deprived you of REM sleep, which in turn knocked your _natural_ balance even more out of tune. That led to anxiety, jumpiness, and nightmares when you _did_ sleep. All of which fed upon each other and grew. You were stuck on a psychological roller coaster that just kept gaining momentum." 

"And in the meantime it had the unanticipated bonus of worrying us," Leo added. "So we started watching you more closely and trying to be more helpful. But all we accomplished in the end was to get on your nerves." 

The Admiral nodded sadly. "Those factors would have actually reinforced the conditioning on their own. Ruth would have noticed, and played on that deliberately. I'd also bet she planted in your mind an instant acceptance of anything she said, and approval of anything she did." 

"You did accept her pretty quickly," Leo recollected. "Surprised all of us." 

"She also would have made sure you told her everything that was going on," Ron put in, ever alert to the criminal angle. "So that she'd know if anyone started to get suspicious of her and went to you with that information." 

"She was always right outside when we had staff meetings," Leo reminded them all. " _We_ wouldn't have spoken to her about business, but how many times did you call her in here right afterwards? Then too, she would've made sure that Charlie kept her up to date of what was happening and who was around - even more than he was supposed to. Like when the Vice President dropped by the other day. He went directly to my office; he never came through reception." 

Charlie looked down at the floor in no little shame. 

"Mr. President, do you remember how well you felt Friday afternoon at the university?" Morrow asked. "You were outside the White House for a good few hours, away from the worst of the stress, the principal workload, and Ruth's influence. Everyone said that you acted very much like your old self. Your strong personality had already started to reassert itself. Same thing when you were forced to stay in the Residence for an extended period of time. It wasn't the sleep alone that you needed; you were out of contact and able to heal, at least a bit. The dinner on Thursday started out to have the same relaxing benefit, but then Ruth came close enough to transmit over the general noise level." 

Charlie closed his eyes. That had been his doing, too. 

Leo sighed. "And of course the first place you'd go after all these forced rests or departures was straight back to this office, and into the trap all over again." 

Ever since he first began to grasp what was being explained to him, Bartlet had stayed very still, very quiet. He just sat there and listened, attention rotating from one speaker to another, attempting to process it all. 

Beside him, Abbey was just as quiet... but her building fury could be seen by all. 

Now, levelly, the President spoke. "How long have you suspected?" 

"Since this morning, sir," Ron stated. "All of your staff contributed to finding the solution." 

The four senior advisors drew themselves up with some justifiable pride. 

"For over a week they've been gathering the circumstantial evidence we needed in order to know where to start. None of them realized it until today, though. Then Leo came to see me." 

Leo nodded. "Right after Toby came to see me." 

The Communications Director shifted. "Right after Charlie came to see _me._ " 

Josh turned. "I spoke to you before." 

C.J. turned as well. "So did I." 

"Me, too," Sam said. 

"Me, three," Donna contributed shyly, earning quick grins. 

"Each of you added a piece to the puzzle," Leo assured them. "When Toby brought these impressions and opinions to me, I caught a hint of a pattern: that the Oval Office _and_ Ruth combined was the common denominator. Then I took it to Ron, and he put it all together." 

"And then Leo came to me," Morrow said. "I spent the entire morning researching the effects of subliminal hypnosis, and left the logistics to others." 

"The entire White House is wired for electronics," Ron explained. "The Secret Service has scanning equipment constantly on alert for detecting covert signals - but we naturally expect them to be generated from outside. We didn't pick up these transmissions through our standard twenty-four-hour surveillance because they originated from _in_ side." He did not make excuses for the situation that no one had ever anticipated. 

"Then we had an added complication. The President was going to leave for Manchester this afternoon. Ruth knew that. The odds were she'd use her influence while she could. This was our chance to obtain _concrete_ evidence." 

"Removing the President from the White House for two full days would keep him from her so long that she'd almost have to start over when he returned," Morrow clarified. "And he _would_ return, since he would have appeared to fully recover." 

Bartlet never liked being referred to in the third person while present, but in his position it was not uncommon. Right now he just cocked an eyebrow in silent protest. 

Leo gazed down at his old friend and leader, allowing the ghost of a grin. "Ron needed a window of opportunity to sweep this room, without being interrupted by either you _or_ Ruth. That's why I called that last-minute meeting in the Roosevelt Room." 

Dawning comprehension spread among the other staffers present. 

"So we kept you busy, while Donna kept Ruth busy." 

Donna broke into a bashful smile. 

"I couldn't risk asking Charlie to do that, since we figured he had to be at least a little under Ruth's influence as well by now, and might not be able to keep the secret from her." 

Charlie winced. 

Ron kept his recital of facts dispassionate. "I found the wireless transmitter stuck under the desk, invisible yet easy to reach. My plan was to leave it there and install my own bug near it. That would give us the proof to end this today." 

Leo's grin widened. "He paged me as a signal that he'd pulled it off undetected, so I'd know I didn't have to prolong our meeting any longer. And sure enough, you headed right back in here and brought Ruth with you." 

"My equipment is cutting-edge, Mr. President," Ron claimed. Of course it would be. "But the unexpected result of two different frequencies in close proximity was piercing feedback. Had we known that would happen, we wouldn't have proceeded - even if it _was_ to gather evidence of a plot against you." 

"The feedback had an equally unanticipated bonus, sir," Morrow said. "It broke Ruth's power of suggestion over you. But it also overloaded your brain in the process. It was the last straw after a lot of unremitting mental and physical punishment." 

Silence fell as everyone waited to see what their leader thought of all this. 

He only asked one question: through gritted teeth, but in a civil enough tone. "Do you know what her motive was?" 

Ron shook his head. "I haven't interrogated her yet, sir. However, I think the scope is self-evident. She had you all set to abolish the House of Representatives solely on her word. I'm sure that was only a test of her influence so far - a test, Mr. President, that you unfortunately passed with flying colors." 

"With that kind of hold, she could auction off the power of the office of the U.S. Presidency to the highest bidder," Leo concluded, the horror growing in his voice. 

Morrow shook his head as well; not in denial but in regret. "I doubt she wanted to break you, sir. You'd have been of no use to her that way. But for sure she wanted to establish a high level of control over your decisions. I can't imagine what she could have done with that influence. I can't even imagine how she made it _this_ far." 

Ron stood on his dignity. "Any candidate for a senior position here is very heavily screened by the Secret Service and the FBI. Ruth did not have a single blip in her past to suggest one suspicious motive or connection. I double-checked this morning. Anything the slightest bit questionable would have certainly come out; it's a very tight process. She must've planned it for years, and kept her record clean with that goal in mind." 

The preparation this must have required, the single-minded dedication towards this goal - and the sheer scope of possibilities - stunned most of those present to silence. 

Bartlet remained motionless, strangely quiet and self-contained, doubtless in full rebellion against the thought that he could ever be handled and played this way. His usually expressive features revealed nothing. 

It was Abbey who broke in now, Abbey whose fury bubbled up inexorably. 

"Admiral, I presume you have your bag with you?" 

Surprised by this request, he responded automatically. "Of course, ma'am." 

"Good." She spoke with a dangerous softness that riveted everyone's attention. "I'm sure there's a scalpel in there someplace. No doctor would be without one." 

"Yes..." Morrow paused, searching for an explanation. "May I ask why you wish to borrow it?" 

"Quite simple." That softness developed a frightening edge. "I am going to dissect that woman. One bloody piece at a time." 

The First Lady sounded dead serious, and the flame in her eyes was a thing to behold. Most people present couldn't prevent a smile. Or a shiver. 

Only Ron dared attempt to dissuade her. She couldn't _really_ be planning a murder. She _had_ to be just letting off steam. "Ma'am -" 

She silenced him with a glare every bit as sharp as the scalpel itself. No one else was suicidal enough to try. 

Except one. 

Curiously, the President found this almost savage rage calming. It provided the last proof he needed to decide that this entire horrid scenario was in fact true. Her furious, protective and ultimately loving reaction could not possibly be artificial. First wonder, then understanding, and then fondness gleamed in his vision, no doubt fueled by the image of his wife extracting a visceral and personal retribution for his pain. 

"Take it easy, Mrs. Lector. I don't think that's how you want to be immortalized in the history books." 

She whirled on him, furious at being so openly doubted. "You think I care? That woman did her level best to drive you insane and you're worried about how the first occasion of First Lady justice might appear in the textbooks of the future..." 

Her words trailed off. Her husband's playful smirk was spreading. 

"Have you never wondered," he began conversationally, "why there haven't been _more_ attempts on my life in the years we've been here? I'll tell you why: because any would-be assassin has long known that he or she would answer to _you._ " 

Abbey hesitated, her mouth twitching with the intense conflict of emotions. Then finally she couldn't deny the humor any longer. For once, he'd landed the upper hand. 

"Besides," Bartlet couldn't resist adding, "I don't want to have to trek over to the state pen to see you. Our paths cross little enough as it is." 

This was a perfect reversal of Thursday night, when she had to calm him down... and of Friday night, when she had _failed_ to calm him. 

Satisfied that he'd diffused this explosive device, the President allowed himself to relax a notch or two. "Well. So much for this chapter in White House infiltration. What next?" He looked about - and for the first time today, actually seemed interested in the input of his most trusted advisors. 

Leo left no doubt about his opinion on what priority of steps needed to be taken from here. "You are going to rest." 

The way Bartlet accepted this very sensible advice - the same advice he'd been resisting for over a week - was heartening to them all. 

Abbey extended her own endorsement at once. "Good idea. It looks like we have more freedom today than we expected. Want to head for the hills as planned?" 

Her husband demurred. "No." 

That might not have been totally unexpected, but at least it lacked the sharpness of previous refusals. 

She never gave up so easily. Besides, the more distance between them and the perpetrator, the less she would be tempted to dwell on thoughts of unsanctioned surgery. "It would get us right away from even the association -" 

"I'm not running scared." The words rang with strength, something else that had been sorely lacking of late. "I won't give _anyone_ the satisfaction of thinking that I can be driven out of my home, official or otherwise. We're staying here. In control." 

Translation: The Man was staying in control - of this building... and of himself. 

When he glanced around, though, he permitted a wry grin. "Although I think I'll boycott my office for the rest of the weekend." 

A fresh wave of relief rippled through this gathering. That famous Bartlet humor had definitely returned. 

Leo rolled his eyes. "And when, pray tell, was the last weekend when you didn't come down here at least once?" 

"Well, this is going to be one of the few." The First Lady had no intention of yielding ground on _that._

The President studied her, then turned to everyone else, watching these people lay plans for him. This time, however, he offered no objection. Another sign of progress. 

Then he sighed. "Meanwhile, now we know of another weak spot in the White House defenses. Suggestions?" 

And another positive clue: he was back in the decision process. 

"Sir, we're already running the most extensive background checks in the country. There's a physical limit to what extremes we can use to secure you." From the set of his jaw, it really stung for Ron to admit that. 

"How well I know. You can't lock me in a steel box, Ron; thanks anyway for trying. Far better to rely on the impressions and trustworthiness of my people. They're too sharp to miss any big changes in behavior." 

Bartlet cast a calculating look at the quiet onlookers. That look contained a fair dose of gratitude - but he couldn't prevent a dash of accusation as well. He and his staff had been on opposite sides too long, with too much of a strain on mutual trust, to dismiss it all in a moment. Full reconciliation _would_ follow... eventually. 

Then all other emotions gave way to depression. His eyes lowered again. 

"Our next order of business... is to see how many scars have been left behind."

* * *

So this is what it feels like to be betrayed. I mean _really_ betrayed. 

This wasn't politics. This was personal. 

I have my own Judas. Someone I trusted without question. Someone who very deliberately set out to ruin me - and came almighty close to doing it. 

I shouldn't blame myself. So I was deceived. We all were. I didn't choose that woman for the position. I merely agreed to give her a chance. Others vetted her, hired her, recommended her. She had us all spoofed. 

Still, _I_ was the one she assaulted. And because of her, I hurt my friends. I hurt my wife. I hurt my job. I came damned close to hurting the whole nation. 

No, I can't blame myself. It really wasn't _me._ Even though it _was_ me. 

Funny; I've had almost an entire year to accept Mrs. Landingham's death. We carried on, kept the business going somehow, and finally we admitted that she had to be replaced. But before today, I never realized how much _security_ she provided. She had my back. 

And the first potential replacement does her best to _stab_ me in the back. 

This is going to be a long twilight. 


	17. Harbinger 17

**Harbinger**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** The President's health is breaking down at last - but what exactly is the cause?  
**Written:** Feb, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2002, between “Stirred” and “Enemies Foreign and Domestic 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 17 ~ 

Saturday - early evening. 

There is a reason why pride is one of the seven deadly sins... and sometimes considered the deadliest of the lot. But, as in all things, there are different facets and degrees. Satisfaction after a job well done is fully justifiable and deserving, no matter how large or small the task. Confidence in one's abilities is essential. An outstanding accomplishment should be recognized. It is the desire to achieve that breeds competition and a measure for excellence. Pride, self-worth and personal dignity all go together; without these, there would be a huge dearth of leadership, decision-making, risk-taking and progress in every stratum of human society. 

The "sin" of pride, by contrast, is a cancer: when selfishness crowds out compassion, when success means everything, when the ego must be fed at all costs even if others will suffer as a result. Or, when a person prefers to suffer rather than admit to fraily, poverty or loss of control. Personal pride is a fundamental weakness: it can be inflated, twisted and terribly wounded. Humans will never know peace without first learning to control their own innermost natures. Laying aside that nature, especially for the benefit of others, is perhaps the single greatest challenge that we shall ever face. 

Jed Bartlet stared out the window of his private study. He wore jeans and a deep burgundy sweater. Of course, he'd long since developed the skill of looking presidential even in civvies. 

Not tonight, though. His expression was somber, and very human. His sweater was dark and void of any college logo... as though he considered himself in mourning. 

"We have the culprit. We have the evidence." Pause. "Where do we go from here?" 

He wasn't seeking support and knowledgeable information for a course of action that he'd already decided to take. He sounded like he genuinely had no idea what to do. 

"We've got to contain this whole thing." Standing several yards off, in his suit and tie, Leo watched his leader's turned back. He could not have been unaware of this pervading uncertainty, this hesitation to make the next move. "Doing it will be the trick." 

"You can say that again, since Ruth is entitled to her day in court." 

Leo shifted, probably guessing at the response to what he was about to propose. "We could try her secretly. Military court." 

Bartlet shook his head. "One slight problem: that would violate her civil liberties." 

"She's a traitor!" the Chief of Staff exclaimed, all of his loyal instincts rising to the fore. "She's forfeited any claim to liberty, civil or otherwise. I defy you to find a judge who'll disagree with me." 

The President rotated, hands in jeans pockets. " _I_ disagree with you. My job happens to include defending the Constitution. I will not deny any American citizen their constitutional rights. Even if they _did_ try to kill me." 

"No one would criticize you for taking that _minor_ detail into account." Fuming, Leo forced himself to back down. Further pursuit of this point would be useless. "Another possibility is an in-camera trial." 

Bartlet's eyes slid sideways, considering this option. 

"It could be legally held, in the interests of national security. Which sure applies here. Besides," Leo continued as an aside, "you've been through more than enough already. Any kind of public trial will only add insult to injury." He sidestepped very carefully around the actual issue of what had been done, and what aftereffects lingered. 

"Better insult _than_ injury," the President commented. "But I can hand you at least one other complication, right off the cuff. Leaving aside the daunting task of not letting the public in on the actual subject - and you and I both know how accommodating the fourth estate is when we politely ask them for a bit of privacy - what about Ruth herself?" 

That made his right-hand man pause. 

"Five will get you ten she'll try to talk to someone, even from behind bars." Bartlet persisted in acting like this was a mere crossword puzzle before them, not an issue of national importance - or of personal impact. He still needed a bit of distance from the fact. "So don't get any ideas about hiding the evidence, either, in the hopes that a trial never comes about." 

Leo appeared to acquiesce. "Maybe we can cut her a deal. It goes against the grain, but I'd swallow my pride if there's a decent chance. She talks, she gets a longer sentence?" 

"Or maybe cut out her larynx?" the President sniped. He paused to wrestle with his temper, to not take it out on the most convenient target. "Having this go public is exactly what she'd want. The moment she gets out from under our thumb she'll blab to high heaven." 

Leo shrugged, accepting that argument. "There you have it. This _has_ to go to a military tribunal." Their debate had gone in precisely the direction he wanted all along. "That will seal the whole thing up for sure." 

Bartlet grunted, realizing that he'd been maneuvered into arriving at the same conclusion. "The whole military trial thing reeks of war crimes and secret dealings. If this ever did get out - and I'm not saying we're doing it yet - we'd have to keep _very_ accurate records of everything done and why. Because you can bet that someday in the future - and maybe not all that _far_ in the future, either - someone will find out about it and wonder if Ruth was denied any justice. I'd want to make sure no one could possibly lob _that_ grenade at me." 

"Can do." Leo maintained his aura of calm... as if hoping that calm in one of them might eventually rub off on the other. 

The President turned back to his window. "All right. I'll chew on it." 

Leo hesitated, but it looked like nothing more was forthcoming on this for now. "I have to go brief the Vice President." 

"My condolences." Pause. "Are the staff outside?" 

"Yes, sir." 

Bartlet heaved a sigh. "Now if only I knew what to say to them." 

His best friend moved a step closer. "Don't worry about it. They understand." He spotted the skeptical headshake. "They _do._ Just _accept_ them. They're not looking for more. Don't make it harder on yourself at the same time." 

The Man considered this. "Right. Okay, send them in - one at a time." 

"Yes, sir." The Chief of Staff turned to go. 

"Leo." 

This most stalwart of all White House employees about-faced. "Sir?" 

His boss rotated again, much more slowly this time. "It's long overdue, but thanks." Those blue eyes contained the faintest glimmer of a sparkle, as they had not in far too long. "You had some terrible decisions to make in all of this... and you made them despite your own personal pain. I can't think of a better way right now to describe 'friend'." 

Leo actually colored a bit, his craggy features softening into a smile. 

Bartlet didn't smile himself, but he gave a nod of eloquent gratitude. 

The President stared out his window, at the patterns of light tracing downtown Washington. "We should've had this conversation a long time ago. Being too busy is no excuse." 

Standing several yards off, in his gray turtleneck, Josh fidgeted constantly. "Please don't worry about it, sir. You made a stellar recovery in every way back then. You're too secure in your own identity to fall prey to the usual problems of the rest of us." 

Bartlet turned. "The rest of you humble and imperfect mortals, you mean?" he countered with a hint of an ironic twinkle. "Even if that were true - and the last time I checked, I hadn't qualified for godhood - I still have a personal understanding of what you went through, both at Rosslyn and after. Sure, nothing had surfaced for me before this, but that doesn't mean it might not have eventually." 

Josh jumped to the next point. "Or, there might never have _been_ a resurfacing, if not for..." He broke off, reluctant to rub salt in the wounds. 

The President raised an eyebrow. "The conditioning? The brainwashing? It's okay; go ahead and say it. I have to get used to the idea myself." 

Josh looked down. "Sir, everyone knows about Rosslyn. If somebody wanted to give you a hard time, that memory would almost _have_ to come up. You had no real defense." He shuffled feet some more. "And _we_ sure didn't help. Quite the opposite." 

"You hear me complaining?" Bartlet held himself still, as though afraid that any extra motion on his part would spook his Deputy Chief of Staff even more. 

"We were pushing you. Tell a person often enough that they're sick and they _become_ sick." Josh gestured helplessly with both arms. "Sir, sometimes it seems like you're ignoring your health, but I know you're not. It's more like you won't let it _rule_ you." He paused, looking terribly guilty. "This time, I... _we_ let it rule _our_ thinking. Not only did we add to your burden, but we made the conditioning more effective!" 

The President measured him thoughtfully. "If it were up to me," as if it weren't, "I'd prefer to take my chances with people who worry too much about me than people who don't care much at all. What's _your_ thought?" 

For a moment a grin slipped past Josh's anxiety. "I guess I don't have any right to object to that." Then something darker came to the fore. "Now, I'm going to risk damaging your opinion of _me_ \- by volunteering for Ruth's firing squad." 

His leader blinked. Surely such a look of pure hatred had never crossed this young man's face before. 

"Well, I very much doubt that I'll forget _that_ handsome offer. I always said you were one of the best scrappers on my payroll, Josh... but it seems I've undervalued you all this time." 

Now it was Josh who blinked. 

"Also," The Man went on, "never doubt your value as a shining example. If you can get over Rosslyn, so can I. With the help of others." 

This time Josh blushed. "Just give us the opportunity, sir." Then he hesitated. "Just so long as we haven't completely lost your trust in us." 

Bartlet's forehead kinked. "Just so long as I haven't lost your trust in _me._ " 

They shared a telling look. 

"But you know, in a sense we were all manipulated together." The President exhaled. "I've always known that I have some incredibly loyal and caring people... who know me well enough to tell when something's wrong, and who aren't afraid to fly to my defense even when they have no clue what they're up against. The fact that you accidentally added to the problem doesn't cheapen your devotion one bit." 

Josh was really smiling now. "Thank you, sir." 

"Oh, and thank Donna too for me, would you? Everyone's had a hand in the resolution." 

Josh drew himself up proudly. "Yes, sir." 

Bartlet gave a nod of paternal affection. 

The President stared out his window, studying the familiar sight of brightly-lit monuments spread out before him. "There's a funny side-effect to being a public figure. You tend to receive even less justice than the ordinary citizen in a situation like this. Everyone feels it's okay to sue corporations, because they're seen as being able to afford it." 

Standing several yards off, in his black cotton shirt, Sam turned this over in his mind. "You're more worried about the public reaction than the court ruling. I can see why. With a good lawyer, Ruth could spin what happened any number of ways - even make you and this whole administration out to be the bad guys." He looked downright depressed. "Politicians tend to get less of the benefit of the doubt than anyone else." 

Bartlet turned. "Also, if we let on how badly I was affected - paint her crime as black as it really was - the next questions are going to be about my competence." 

"And if we water down what she did, we can't go for the full force of the law." Sam scratched the base of his neck, his eyes distant, searching for inspiration. "There has to be a way around this." 

Despite their tense topic he seemed fairly relaxed, leaning against the nearest armchair. That unselfconscious stance helped his leader relax a bit as well. 

"There's a little too much circumstantial evidence here. Ron has the tapes she made, and a recording of her voice, but we can't prove absolutely that _she_ put the transmitter in the Oval Office." Sam bounced legal factors around in his mind. "Plus, you'd still have to play the tapes in court, and that sort of thing is not always admissible. The law is quite weird at times." 

The President stood silently, watching this mental exercise with great interest. 

"I'm sure Ruth is not going to waive her right to trial by jury and have a judge sit in verdict. At least she'd have some hope of a jury hanging, or acquittal on a technicality. Still, the tapes are in her voice, she certainly had access to plant the transmitter, and God knows there's no possible way to mistake her intent." 

The Deputy Director of Communications straightened as a new thought occurred to him. "That's another thing: you'll want to keep this under wraps. We can't have someone else getting similar ideas. But the public wants to know, _especially_ about security breaches. The first breath of drama... Then there's Ruth herself. I seriously doubt she'll be willing to stay quiet. Public fallout to you would be a form of personal revenge, just to take the sting out of her failure. It doesn't matter which jail she winds up in; the networks will track her down." He shuddered. "God, the books and interviews alone would be worth millions." 

Bartlet didn't disagree. "Almost as much as she would have earned by selling the influence of the Presidency around the world." 

Sam's eyes grew wide. " _Definitely_ got to lock this down. Otherwise we won't dare hire anyone new here again, and we'll start suspecting everyone who's already inside!" 

"Just what the doctor ordered," his Chief Executive muttered. 

The young man drew a slow breath. "Sir, I kind of hate to open up this whole new can of worms, but there just might be another option." 

"I'm certainly open to one." 

"A military court." Sam swallowed, obviously aware of the difficult scenario he was proposing. "They follow the same rules of evidence, but it's a totally different situation and a lot easier to control. Due process will still be given, but _not_ in a public forum. Once convicted, and she _would_ be convicted, a cell in a military prison. The reporters won't be able to get to her there. If she talks after her release, this whole thing will be so long in the past that it can't cause _you_ any trouble at least." 

Slowly, the President seemed to come around to this argument. "You may have a point. We'll see. 'Can of worms' is an understatement." 

"Well, sir, whatever course you choose, we're there." Sam squared his shoulders. "That woman was cruel, malicious, unfeeling, amoral, _inhuman_..." He taxed his built-in thesaurus for further appropriate adjectives, then gave up. "But she didn't succeed, and she won't get to try again. And neither will anyone else if we're careful. Everything will be okay." 

This young lawyer always was irrepressible. His utter confidence felt almost contagious, even as his vow of support warmed the heart. 

The Man couldn't prevent a smile now. "It's your job to keep reminding me of that, Sam." 

"It'd be my pleasure, sir." 

Bartlet gave a nod in response to this youthful assurance. 

The President stared out his window, gazing into the star-spangled heavens. "Ruth is a civilian. Besides, we're not at war. She has rights." 

Standing several yards off, in his tie-less shirt and jacket, Toby looked down in deceptive submission. "Yes, she does. After all, she hadn't _actually_ committed treason yet - just was ready to. You might accuse her of practicing psychotherapy without a license instead," he suggested, his usual deadpan manner failing to hide the facetious note. 

Bartlet turned. "At least _your_ humor hasn't suffered from all this upheaval." 

Toby straightened, dropping the masks and swinging into attack mode. "Sir, you have a case. This woman has, in essence and without defense, assaulted the President. The ultimate seat of power. That's a federal crime right there. Then consider what she would certainly have done if she hadn't been stopped. She infiltrated - past tense - the highest office in the land. It could be spun that she's now an enemy of this country, and therefore forfeits any claim to civil liberties." He stood motionless, absolutely confident of his moral high ground. 

The President started to pace, as though he felt the need to fill this vacuum of motion. "I can't say I'm happy about anyone's liberties being denied, no matter what the reason. And certainly not just because of me." 

His Communications Director blew out in exasperation. "She wasn't exactly cheating at a game of chess here. She wanted _control._ Control of you, control of this office, control of this entire branch of federal government! Imagine the impact if she'd achieved it!" He waved one hand for emphasis. "People all over the world would have lined up at her door and paid a king's ransom _each_ to have their pet projects personally endorsed by the U.S. President - without objection, revision or delay. How about certain countries in the Middle East? What do you suppose _they_ might like you to do for them? Blow up their next-door neighbors, maybe? How about access to our nuclear codes? No point in settling for half-measures when you can have it _all._ Ruth was in a position to sell blank checks with your name on them." 

He paused for breath, but refused to pull any punches. "We're talking about a woman who threatened _world_ security, and damned near overthrew the elected head of the world's last superpower in the process. This was an aborted coup!" He hesitated briefly, no doubt remembering the last time he used _that_ word, then kept going. "And a coup, by default, becomes a military issue. There's your case, Mr. President: all wrapped up neatly." 

Bartlet glowered. "That's a hell of a small loophole, Toby." 

"A camel through the eye of a needle, sir. Nothing is impossible." 

"Now _that's_ cheating." 

Toby had regained his characteristic immobility. "It's an archeological fact. Predates the New Testament by a millennium or two. Every city and town had a wall. Every wall had one small gate that was never locked." 

"I know; it was called the Eye of the Needle. A small door, easy to defend, but still available to late-night travelers." This President always loved his trivia. If said trivia coincided with the history of the Holy Land, so much the better. "A camel _could_ get through: if it was fully unpacked and crawled in on its knees. There's enough fodder there for whole sermons on people having to abandon both their possessions and their pride to enter heaven." 

He stopped - probably seeing the sudden serendipity between that parable and this night. 

Toby leaped into the lull, and the usual darkness behind his eyes grew dangerously bright. "Yes, it's a loophole." His volume dropped, becoming cold and implacable. "Since I won't have the personal satisfaction of watching that woman hang, I'll seize any loophole there is to make sure she never sees the light of day again." 

The Man's head moved sideways three degrees, as though evaluating this fearsome attitude from a new angle. 

"So much for opposition to capital punishment." 

"Your personal enemies bring out the worst in me, sir." 

"A fact that gives me no small comfort." 

Toby did not reply aloud, although the tilt of his head spoke volumes. He stood silently, like a supporting pillar, both stubborn and absolutely reliable. 

Bartlet nodded in salute. 

The President stared out his window, watching his own reflection in the night-tinted glass. "The guys are trying to talk me into arranging a military court." 

Standing several yards off, in her V-neck and blouse, C.J. followed his every move warily. "Sir, they're right. We really do need to keep a lid on this. I'm not sure I like comparing the White House to Alcatraz... but if even a whisper gets out that someone penetrated the security of the Oval Office itself, you can bet your bottom dollar someone _else_ will try to do the same. Knowing it's been done before is a massive incentive, and that makes it a credible threat." 

Bartlet turned. "If we go this route, we'll be stretching legalities to the breaking point." 

"We'll stretch it as far as we have to in order to protect you, sir!" The Press Secretary had no doubt in her mind that this was their best option. 

"That's my point. Ruth was after _me_ \- no one else. I don't like the idea of moving heaven and earth just to brace up my image in the news." 

"This is not about image, sir. The office of the President must be protected. And right now the best way to do that is to muzzle her and everything she did, everything she _tried_ to do." 

He shook his head. "It still smacks of revenge. Just because I happen to _be_ President, we're determined to give this woman _more_ than the maximum sentence anyone else would get. Just for me." 

"Excuse me, sir, but it's _not_ just for you." C.J. came no closer, but her voice and her determination never wavered. "This is for the country as well. This is for all future Presidents and the United States government. There's far more than one man at stake here, even though that one man _is_ someone we personally like. If Ruth's story gets out, then every one of your successors, every administration to come after this one, will be in that much more danger." 

Bartlet frowned. "You'd have a time selling _that_ to Congress." 

"Sir, if the whole point wasn't to keep this _dead_ secret, I'd be more than willing to try. In fact I'd bet that the vote would be unanimous, even across party lines. And I'd also bet it wouldn't be the first time. How many other security breaches do you suppose there have been around here that never made it into the headlines?" 

Despite her confident tone, C.J.'s nervousness permeated the room. Still, she did her best to put her leader at ease, and he appreciated it. 

"Well argued. Now I just have to convince myself that I'm not doing this for personal reasons, too... like revenge." 

"Well, of course you are!" Her sharp rebuttal surprised him. "We _all_ are! At least a _little_ bit. We're only human. But if we can't throw Ruth off the top of the Capitol dome, then this is the next best thing." A snap of flame leaped out of C.J.'s eyes. "More to the point, it will preserve the safety of the Commander-in-Chief. _That's_ why we're doing this. For the future, for those who come after us. We need justice _and_ secrecy. You have the power to grant her justice _with_ secrecy, and you're not abusing that power. I know you'd never give in to the desire for revenge, even if I haven't seen the evidence right here tonight. You're above that. And since _you_ now know too that you are, you can get on with administering that justice." 

The President pursed his lips, as though fighting a smile. "Well, I can safely say that I'm not the only one around here who's above that. Homicidal thoughts notwithstanding." 

She did smile, shyly. "Thank you, sir." 

"And speaking of justice..." For the first time tonight, he advanced a step closer. "Here's the apology that's been haunting me for days now. I was way out of line to chew you out before. You had nothing but the best in mind for me, you knew I wouldn't go for it even though it _was_ for the best, and you were willing to risk the flak anyway." 

C.J. ducked her head. "I still aggravated things for you at the time. I'm sorry." 

The Man waved a hand. "Don't give it another thought. I'm not trying to insult you here by comparing you to Ruth, honest. But she was the one always doing exactly what I wanted and agreeing with everything I said - or so I thought. And look what _she_ had in mind all along." 

This time C.J. grinned. "I'll take that as official permission to keep fighting with you, sir." 

Then her amusement dissipated. "May I make one other point?" 

"Of course." Now that kind of acceptance was also long overdue. 

"The Admiral said earlier that the more intelligent a mind is, the more susceptible it is to mental conditioning." She hesitated, and sure enough she glimpsed an executive wince. "I can only imagine how repugnant the entire concept must be for you. But I still say that it's better to have the gift of intelligence, even if it _might_ be exploited, than to be marginally safer yet not have that gift at all." 

Bartlet digested this. Then, slowly, he nodded his agreement. 

The President stared out his window, peering into the enigmatic night, when someone knocked at the door behind him. 

"Yes, Charlie." 

The young man entered, closed the door, and stood there. "You wanted to see me, sir?" 

Bartlet turned. "Yeah. Come on over." 

In his black jeans and dark shirt, Charlie hesitated... then advanced two steps. No more. Clearly he just could not bring himself to relax in his leader's presence. 

A lot had happened since the last time they faced each other. A lot of it had started the mending process of recent and anguishing breaches in trust. Yet memories cannot be erased... merely reconciled. 

The discomfort remained, and it would linger for awhile yet. 

His leader spoke quietly. "We've both been through something of the same ordeal. Admiral Morrow is convinced that Ruth would have spent a fair bit of time winning you over as well." 

"I... guess she would have had to." Charlie must have been thinking about this quite a bit all afternoon. 

"You were the one sitting across from her, as well as being around me. Luck of the draw." Hands in pockets, the President strolled sideways a few steps, not approaching directly. 

His body man stood painfully stiff at attention, as though about to be sentenced - or shot. 

"But that's no conceivable excuse for how I snubbed you earlier. Twice." 

A shudder of relief rippled across Charlie's taut shoulders. Still, that relief didn't chase away _all_ the guilt. "Part of the job, sir." 

"It had better not be!" Bartlet took care not to make that sound like a reprimand. "You always seem to get the worst of my moods, but I hope I've _never_ treated you like a slave, or a piece of furniture. Now I know you have some serious healing to do as well. Besides, you're young \- and though there are times I forget that you are, youth still makes a person that much more vulnerable. But you've come to know me very well, and I sincerely hope you'll be able to remember that the man you've been dealing with for the past few days wasn't _me._ " 

The degrees of relaxation were increasing. "Yes, sir. I know that now." 

"Good. I'm really sorry you got personally dragged into this whole mess. Let's bind up our wounds together." The President extended his hand. 

For several seconds, the young man just looked at it. The offer of a handshake was not particularly unsurprising - but the bruises on that wrist were hideously visible. 

Bartlet couldn't miss this. He allowed a gentle smile. "Come on. I want you to put last night out of your mind for good." 

Step by step, self-loathing at war with respect, Charlie approached. It required an almost physical exertion to make contact... but he finally managed it. 

The grip started out cautiously, then increased in pressure as the comfort level grew. 

"Bury that hatchet," The Man ordered with satisfaction. 

Charlie swallowed, hard put to express his feelings accurately. "Sir... I grew up without a father." He had to pause, gathering his nerve. No turning back now. "But there's no way I could have felt worse if I'd done to my father what I did to you last night." 

This soft, heartfelt statement caught Bartlet off-guard. He blinked, twice. Then a _real_ smile bloomed, and he wrung the hand of his personal aide with equal emotion. 

The President waited until the door closed behind his last visitor of the night. Then he let out a deep, tired sigh and sank into a seat on the sofa. 

"About time," a familiar voice commented, coming from the side doorway into the next room. 

He glanced that way, not in any great surprise. "Have you been _eavesdropping?_ " 

"Of course." The First Lady leaned casually against the jamb, grinning. "How else am I to judge the progress of your health?" Casual or not, she was definitely serious about _that._

"I used to believe you were a surgeon, not a psychoanalyst." He leaned forward, planted elbows on knees, and propped his head with both hands. 

"Considering the practice you give me, I should have all the required training by now." She wandered over. "So, you've patched everything up?" 

"I made my apologies. I absolved them of theirs." Curiously, her husband didn't sound like those accomplishments had been so successful. 

She must have detected this, and fished gently for an explanation. "They're all wonderful and brilliant people, and you'll never have more loyal friends." 

He didn't look up. "Even when the object of their loyalty proves to be unworthy." 

"All right, Jed, you don't need to get maudlin on us!" Abbey stood in front of him, arms folded. "How could anyone tell that they're being surreptitiously programmed to behave and think differently than normal? The whole concept is designed to feel absolutely natural to the patient. Don't blame yourself for being taken in. Any of us would have been as well." 

He still refused to meet her gaze. One hand mechanically rubbed the Band-Aid on his brow. "That doesn't make me feel much better. I was _used._ I was _changed._ This whole thing - it's got me questioning myself. My abilities, my decisions. _Everything._ " 

In any politician, much less a leader, that is fatal. In _this_ man, even more so. 

Abbey shrugged. "Perfectly natural. But it won't last. Sure, your self-confidence took a few hard hits, but it didn't shatter completely. It's the measure of your heart that you _will_ come out the other side. Maybe with your ego a little smaller than before, but there's nothing wrong with _that._ " She forced a hint of laughter into her voice. "And you might not be so _generally_ trusting for awhile, but in this field that's okay too. All you need is time." 

She reached forward and touched his bowed head, brushing his hair ever so tenderly. Almost like a benediction. "You're intelligent, imaginative, introspective, and faithful. I _know_ you'll pull through, and be stronger than ever, no matter how long it takes." 

Jed's eyes closed. "Once I get over the humiliation, sure." 

Abbey glanced aside, somewhat self-conscious as well. "Yes, the staff saw you in some pretty personal moments, didn't they. But we should both be used to invasions of privacy by now. A bit of humility is good for the soul. Besides, when you see someone else at their most vulnerable, that can strengthen the bond all the more. The embarrassment passes quickly; the closeness doesn't. These people are _family,_ Jed. They have been for a long time, and they earned it. Don't start throwing up barriers now." 

She took her seat beside her husband, rested a hand on his shoulder, and rested her chin on that hand. Their heads were side by side. "You mustn't keep second-guessing yourself. You have to rely on your staff's advice and talent, just like before. _And_ you need to make the final decisions. That's what you're here for, and you've always been good at it." 

She was more used to seeing him off-balance, and more skilled at bucking him up, than anyone else. But this was vastly different from physical weakness. The energy that saw him through those recent interviews with his closest staff members had bled away. 

"Can I?" Jed almost whispered. He looked up, staring into another, terrifying dimension. "Can I still do my job at all?" 

His wife straightened, and her light touch on his shoulder became more like a vice. "Let's go, here! You never let illness get you down before. You always fought that tooth and nail. Don't stop fighting now!" 

"I'm tired. I'm _weak._ I lost control so totally that you had to _hold me down!_ " 

"Don't think of that as a failure, or a frailty. This was a criminal plot - and you beat it. The villain almost pulled it off, but 'almost' isn't good enough. It wasn't _you_ at all back then. Now it is. You need to get over the bad memories and the injured pride. You've got some rebuilding to do, but you _know_ you can do it. You've done it before." 

Jed's response to this encouragement was lukewarm. "Maybe." His volume dropped. So did his gaze. "There's something more personal, and much more awful, about this assault than any gunshot. It required even greater long-term planning, premeditation and intent, and it also resulted in great pain. It targets the soul rather than the body, which makes it even more of a violation. It twisted me into something I've never been, something I pray I never will be again. And finally, it dragged all of you in as well. And _that's_ the worst part of this." 

He rotated towards her, his expression tortured. "I learned to distrust you. I learned to _hurt_ you. Even if each of you can forgive me for that, how can I forgive myself?" 

"Start now," Abbey demanded. "You've been through hell and high water, and no wound heals overnight. But we're walking this distance together." She spoke with touching earnestness. "We're here to help you, Jed. Don't be too proud to _let_ us help." 

After a long moment, he nodded back. There might have been the faintest suspicion of dampness in his eyes; certainly they were much brighter now than before. 

"Okay. I'll try to take it on faith." 

Her smile returned. "That's my guy." She reached up and placed her free hand on his cheek in the lightest of caresses. 

He did not smile. "But there's one more thing." 

She started to look apprehensive, dreading what he was about to say next. 

Jed took both of her hands in his. Looked down. Struggled to find the words. 

"There's nothing that can possibly express how bad I feel about not trusting _you,_ Abbey." His voice trembled. "Sure, I was being compelled to distrust everyone. But I'd never have believed that _anything_ in this world could poison me against you. I remember swearing that nothing would ever come between us. _Nothing._ " 

The pain in his vision was heart-wrenching to see. "And after all that, I turned away from you. _I broke my vow to you._ " 

This bore no resemblance to their deal about a single-term Presidency. _This_ failure had sliced through his living heart. 

Blinking rapidly, she squeezed back. "No, you didn't. That was just a misunderstanding. Our love is stronger than this, Jed. It always has been. Don't you ever forget it."

* * *

Such a long way to go. Will I ever be the same again? 

No, I won't keep asking myself that. I've _got_ to get past that. For the office, for the friends who stood by me, for the nation itself. 

For Abbey. 

So long as I live here, I'll never really be safe. I know that. But someone has to do this job. Someone has to take the risk. Someone has to make the decisions. 

Right now it's _my_ job. 

I have two choices: fight, or quit. 

I'm not quitting. 

I _can_ handle it. I have friends I've always known to trust, and they've trusted me. They just might be willing to trust me again. 

I can't let them down. I mustn't. 

I _won't._


	18. Harbinger 18

**Harbinger**

**by: Sheila VR**

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Category(s):** Angst  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Summary:** The President's health is breaking down at last - but what exactly is the cause?  
**Written:** Feb, 03  
**Author's Note:** Set Apr. 2002, between “Stirred” and “Enemies Foreign and Domestic 

* * *

~ CHAPTER 18 ~ 

Saturday - midnight. 

Psychological warfare is nothing new to our pugnacious race. A demoralized leader can't lead; a demoralized army won't follow. Psychological conditioning in the true scientific sense, however, is a much more recently acquired tool, and a much more dubious one at that. The CIA and the KGB are not the only federal agencies in the world with a reputation for experimenting, either. After all, if any other nation is subjecting your people to such "treatments," then surely turnabout is fair play. This throws the door of justification wide open to everyone. Even between lovers, mind games are sadly also far too common. The human mind is supposed to be the last frontier, but instead it's become the last battleground. 

So what is the inevitable next step? When does a turnabout go beyond fairness? When does perceived equality become retribution? When is justice actually revenge? 

The office was featureless: its blank white walls containing only a simple rectangular table with two chairs, one on either side of its width. It could have been a movie set for almost any official interrogation room in the world. 

Curiously, its lone occupant showed no sign that she found such an obvious comparison disconcerting. She circled her confines leisurely, patient and unconcerned, surely unlike any other prisoner who might have been here before. 

The door opened. She turned, without surprise. Two men entered: Ron Butterfield, the picture of dangerous efficiency, and one of his fellow operatives. Both in black suits, and beyond a doubt both armed. They moved to either side of the door, watching her coldly. 

They said nothing. Neither did she. All three knew what was coming next. 

Enter the injured party, exercising his legal right to confront his assailant. 

The door closed behind him, ensuring that they would not be interrupted. 

Whether in regular business attire like usual or in casuals like tonight, there was little to set Jed Bartlet apart physically at first glance. Once you met his eye, though, you _knew_ absolutely who he was. However, that presidential eye lacked its strength right now... and the simple clothes bore a disturbing resemblance to being deprived of armor. He looked both physically and emotionally off-balance, and distinctly uncomfortable as no one who only saw him in public would ever have expected or believed. 

Was he _still_ vulnerable, even now? 

By startling contrast, Ruth Beausoleil looked utterly at ease. Still in her sky-blue dress, her short silver hair as perfect and striking as always... her manner displaying the exact same respect and deference it always had during her tour of duty just upstairs. Like a teenager whom you _know_ is being rude by the attitude and tone, and yet you can't be openly reproachful because the words are superficially polite. 

Several seconds ticked past. He stood stiff and scowling, hands in pockets, at a bit of a distance, as though afraid to make one move that would betray his anxiety. He watched her with something of the horrified fascination that an arachnophobe would feel in the presence of a large, hairy spider. 

"Good evening, Mr. President." Ruth faced him across the table, hands folded demurely before her, smiling ever so slightly, not at all vicious or resentful or gloating. Her voice was modulated and utterly normal. The voice she had taught him to trust - to his detriment. 

He did not answer. She intended to very deliberately mess with his mind every chance she had left, and he knew it. But despite all the opposition expressed by his bodyguards, his staff and his family, he had to do this. 

Bartlet could not hide the fact that this total normalcy masking insidious purpose, this unrepentant confidence despite her arrest, was just a bit intimidating for him at the moment. Imagine that: the President of the United States feeling threatened by a lone, unarmed woman on her way to prison for what would certainly be a lengthy sentence, where she wouldn't be a threat to anyone. It would be laughable... except for the recollection of how deeply she had hurt _him,_ and his sudden understanding that she wasn't done yet. 

She tilted her head a notch. "You look good in casual wear. You seem... less uptight. Less stressed. You should dress down more often." 

He did not dignify that overly personal and totally out-of-line comment with a response. She waited... then calmly moved forward and sat down in one of the chairs, facing him. As though this was her office and he the employee brought up on charges of bad conduct. As though she were the one in control here, not him. Which, in a horribly real sense, she was. 

"I'm flattered, sir. You really feel that you need two bodyguards to protect you from me?" This time they all heard the note of snide superiority. 

That line started his anger simmering: helped him rise above the intimidation, the near-paralysis and the genuine fear. "They aren't here to protect _me._ " 

Ruth showed a touch of surprise at that. Yet even so, her smile did not fade entirely. "Oh - for _me?_ But surely I don't need protecting from _you._ " She could not have looked less worried, knowing full well that he would never touch her. "On the other hand, I know that the office of the President can be very awe-inspiring..." 

Bartlet refused to let her get away with that. Her grating attitude had begun to really warm him up. "Oh, they're here to protect you, all right." He paused, forcing her to think that through for a moment. "But not from me." 

This time her smile faltered. 

That glimpse, that fleeting crack in her composure, helped him relax somewhat. "You see, there are a lot of people upstairs who wouldn't hesitate to take matters into their own hands, due process of law notwithstanding." Now _he_ smiled, brief though it was. "The First Lady commented earlier about how she'd like a slice of your liver for a souvenir." 

That thought actually made Ruth shiver just a bit. 

"And that says nothing about these guys themselves." The President hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "In a way, they're keeping an eye on each other." 

Neither Secret Service agent moved, as though unaware that they were the current topic of discussion. Still, the expression on Ron's face went far beyond his official duty to protect his national leader. 

Said national leader had overcome some of his initial trepidation. Knowing that all this outpouring of rage and protectiveness was on his behalf helped him get a little further down the road to recovery. 

Ruth had already demonstrated that _she_ could not easily be intimidated. She shook off her own apprehension quickly. "May I inquire, sir, as to why I've been kept waiting?" 

He forced himself not to react to this illusion of polite respect, keeping his words short and detached. "You'll be shipped out of here tonight, before the word gets around as to what actually happened. And before one of my people does something impulsive. Lacking in violent mob mentality they may be, but their feelings run kind of deep right now and I'd just as soon remove the provocation. This is my only chance to drop by. Once you're out of the House, arranging a secret visit will be almost impossible." 

So here he was, facing her now, even with the wounds still horribly raw. 

Ruth blinked solemnly, as though genuinely unsure. "You wished to speak with me so badly? I don't know what to say." 

"I'm doing this for much the same reason people go to funerals. It's unpleasant, but it does provide a sense of closure." In the next pause, his glower darkened even more. "This is also your chance to gloat, if you want. You won't get another opportunity." 

He said that with considerable assurance, as though she would never be _physically_ capable of talking about her deeds again... and as though it wouldn't actually bother him to stand here and listen to her do so. 

Clearly she believed neither point for one minute. Her smug defiance returned. 

"I have no intention of _gloating,_ Mr. President. Although one does like to receive credit due for one's achievements." 

Bartlet's lips tightened, fighting a snarl. She still maintained firm control over her ego, but she couldn't resist this invitation to recount her perfectly-planned shot at being the real power behind the throne - a bonus made even more sweet by telling it to Bartlet's face. Even so, she continued to maintain that polite air towards him... which only made this whole conversation rankle all the more. Surely she intended it thus. 

He had his own reasons for wanting to subject himself to the ordeal. "I know you've already been read your Miranda rights." 

"I can take care of myself, thank you." Which implied that he couldn't. 

The President managed to ignore that implication. "Well, before you ask, we're not taping this. And I won't be attending your trial, either." 

"They'd never let you." Somehow, Ruth made that self-evident fact sound like a jab to _his_ ego. She wasn't the only one to exert influence over him; he would still be "controlled" in certain ways for the rest of his time in the White House. He gritted his teeth, seeing that truth in all its stark clarity. 

She sat back, no less comfortable than if she were in an easy chair in her own home. "Of course, a military court is the logical course of action. I'm sure everyone is recommending that to you." 

There was a not-so-subtle emphasis on _recommending_... which was exactly what she'd been doing to him for over a week. Even now, exposed and trapped, she had the audacity to keep telling him what to do. In the hopes that he would see that and rebel against the very thought? So that he would refuse to follow any of her "advice" ever again, even if it tailored with the opinions of his trusted experts? So that he would, in the end, make this easier for her? 

"But you know better than that, sir." Now she assumed the other side of the argument, easily chivvying him into a no-win scenario. "It would raise questions of civil liberties, and warped justice. And you're too fair, too moral, to be pressured into such a decision. Against anyone." 

Both bodyguards shifted in fury that this woman could sit there and blithely pursue her efforts at mental control even now. Why anyone would want to subjugate another person is hard enough to understand in itself; her desire to play on the trust her boss had developed for her before - as well as the trust he was only just recovering among his closest colleagues - surpassed belief. And now, having lost control of the Oval Office, she was determined to make sure he lost it as well... and his relationship with his staff on top of everything else. 

Bartlet managed to restrain himself. "I'm waiting," he said simply. Ominously. 

"I'm sorry." She sure didn't sound it. "I should think the basic premise is pretty obvious. There's no realistic chance that I could ever become President in my own right. Therefore, what _else_ is a woman to do for a fair shot at power?" 

"I wish you'd tried to run anyway," he said at once, startling her. "Sure, it would divide the nation. Some people would've voted against you and others for you solely because of your gender. But a woman candidate would eventually be evaluated on her merits alone. It would've been a great growing-up experience for the whole country." 

Ruth rolled her eyes, plainly conveying what she thought was the likelihood of that happening anytime soon. 

"Plus," the President continued, "if you _had_ gained office, you would've had more checks and balances to deal with than you can imagine. You'd have had far less success in taking the Republic to the brink of self-destruction." 

She raised both hands. "Case in point. Working behind the scenes has its own advantages, one of which is avoiding the red tape. Another is avoiding notoriety. I planned this for years. I studied subliminal conditioning and psychology with the best minds in the field - in secret, of course. I was scrupulous about keeping my name and my past clean. I knew there would be an in-depth screening when I applied for work here." 

"Ron told me that your record was _too_ clean. He's mad at himself for not noticing that sooner." Bartlet flickered a grin. "I wouldn't remind him of it, if I were you." 

The head of White House security somehow looked even more deadly. Ruth's composure wavered at the sight. 

"Meanwhile, he's giving every employee in the White House another review \- a close one, and a discreet one. This won't happen again; we know what to watch for now. Even so, it hasn't shaken this government branch or the faith its staff members have in each other." 

Bartlet evinced full confidence in that statement. Now confidence in _himself_... that was another story. A story still striving for a happy ending. 

He settled his stance more firmly. "So why me? Was it just timing? Surely any President would have served your purpose. But you applied right after I was elected." 

She took refuge in her tale. "Oh, your predecessor wasn't honest enough. The more devious a mind, the less effective the conditioning will be." 

"So honesty is a liability in politics for more reasons than one, huh?" 

"That's for sure. Besides, he was a Republican. I couldn't do that to one of my own." 

The Man couldn't prevent himself from staring in total disbelief. It defied comprehension that something so comparatively trivial as party persuasion, even by D.C. standards, could be such a huge factor in such a global act of treason. 

Oblivious to this, Ruth carried on, basking in her own brilliance. "I planned for all contingencies. I'd worked my way up to where I stood among the best choices of executive secretary. If I hadn't been the _first_ choice, I was perfectly content to wait; no matter who _was_ first, you were sure to have some difficulties with her. And if you didn't... well, there are ways to get a person discharged. Say, for incompetence." 

Bartlet struggled not to vent his disgust at this planned sabotage. "Something you didn't have to worry about yourself, of course. I can't remember a thing you did wrong." 

"Of course not. You and Charlie both." 

He really looked thunderous at the thought of her manipulating Charlie the same way she'd twisted _him._ Ruth wisely decided not to mention that again. 

"This whole thing has been marvelously entertaining for you, hasn't it?" 

"Has it ever," she readily agreed. "It became a real academic experiment, to see just how far I could drive you towards self-destruction. Before I sold your office to the highest bidder, I had to prove that I was in control." 

"Absolutely." His tone was dead, void of any emotion whatsoever. "So you attacked my moods, my memory, my sleep patterns, my general behavior..." 

"Throw in a few physical side-effects for good measure. Sleep deprivation alone can be amazingly effective, and the power of the mind is almost unlimited." Ruth was doubly delighted that he understood. "I didn't actually fool with your medications, though; I wanted full credit. Mental influence _only._ After all, I needed a carefully controlled test subject." 

The President's eyes blazed. Somehow, some way, he reined himself back. "With all this accomplished, my signature must've been easy for you." 

"Oh, that was a great way to play on your fears that you were losing your mind. Of course, I did my practicing at home. It's _so_ easy to get a sample." Now that was gloating: not just at him, but at the security of both the auto-pen and the White House itself. "That economics report was only the first of several toss-outs I had intended. But then, your willingness to sign at my command earlier today simplified everything." 

Bartlet's face developed a slightly crimson flush. Yet still he denied his surging impulses and stayed on target. It helped to know for a fact that the specific report had not been _his_ fault after all. "I guess the memory of Rosslyn was inevitable. You obviously thought so." 

"Truth be known, sir," as if she could be relied upon to tell the truth about anything now, "you did that all by yourself. You'd recovered so well from that fiasco that I never thought of it before this week. My guess is, your own growing anxieties brought it to the surface. Naturally, once I heard about what happened in the Map Room, no way could I pass up such a golden opportunity." The savage exultation could not be denied now. 

He would _not_ let her know what scars she had caused. Instead he shifted to another topic: one with at least some satisfaction. "We've got photos from the GW speech. Ron tracked down a boy with a pea-shooter, snapped in the very act of popping the balloon. The kid admitted that you hired him as a prank. So _that_ evidence is firm." 

"But how damning is it?" Ruth countered. "Do you feel threatened by peas?" 

"Well, you clearly don't feel threatened by _me._ " 

"There's no reason why I should, _sir._ " She folded her arms, supremely confident. "You're a very intelligent man, but that has been more to my benefit than yours. You already have this medical condition; many people who would otherwise accept your word without hesitation can very quickly learn to mistrust you. Look what I was able to make you do. You were doubting your own mind. You were doubting all those people you've known and trusted for years. You were inflicting harm upon yourself. Arresting me doesn't change any of that. I've won every hand that counts." 

Bartlet's flush of sheer rage deepened another degree or two. His tone deepened at the same rate. "That remains to be seen." 

She scoffed at him, amazingly self-centered and relentless. "You might as well ante up, Mr. President. For at least a little while I held the power, not you. I had the glory of possessing an incredible secret. While I was working right outside the Oval Office, I was directly influencing what happened _in_ side. Your worth on the international black market is almost secondary. The fact that no one else knew was moot." Curiously, despite the great pleasure she got now from revealing all of this, she seemed to believe that statement. 

"And what about the election? You sure weren't doing me any favors there." 

"Well, naturally I was hoping you'd win." That sounded strange, considering what disloyalty Ruth had shown herself capable of. "Then I would've been set up for four solid years of putting a price tag on your desk. I'd have had time to be a lot more subtle about it, too." She shrugged. "If you lost, on the other hand, then I would have had only two months. Two months of every nations' underground - including America's - flocking to me to take advantage of my trained Chief Executive while they could. I'd have made a fortune in a very short time." 

He shook his head from side to side, very slowly. "Your name should be Ruth- _less._ " 

She actually dimpled at him. "Hm. I like that." 

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me." He seemed to have given up trying to comprehend her grandiose drive for power even beyond his high office. 

"You know, if you hadn't had quite so much fun playing with your executive mouse," and again Bartlet wrung all emotion out of his words, "you might have gotten away with it for a lot longer. But my staff is sharp and tight-knit. They'd have noticed something soon enough. A series of atypical decisions would not have gone unquestioned. They're brilliant operatives all, they know me, and they aren't afraid to confront me. No matter how unaware of this _I_ might have been, you had no hope of actually pulling it off." He was under no illusion as to how much he owed his staffers and friends. 

"But it could have been a long time coming," Ruth pointed out blithely. "How much might I have accomplished in the meantime?" 

"Thank God we'll never know." 

"Oh, won't we?" She studied him... far too challenging. 

For the first time the President shifted his stance, as if preparing for a whole new campaign. A battle campaign, not an electoral one. "Yeah, I get it. At some point there _has_ to be a leak. We can't hide the fact that my personal secretary was arrested. You might have friends, and you probably have family. Then there's your lawyer. Something will get out. Public speculation will run wild. And it won't end with the trial's verdict. Then there's the spin factor." 

"Oh, for sure." Ruth wore an innocent expression that insulted everyone else in this room. "The poor little helpless private citizen, crushed by the power and _ruthlessness_ of the Presidency." She savored her own joke about her name. "People love to believe the worst of those in power. After all, anyone seeking such positions by definition must be arrogant, corrupt and power hungry. You've already proven that with your belated medical disclosure." 

Bartlet nodded, acknowledging her point. "Meanwhile, although my staff is itching to throw the book at you, they also desperately want to spare me official questions about my general competency. If those tapes of yours are played, the consensus for most people will be that I'm weak to ever have been affected like that. Of course _they_ would never fall prey to such a trick. The fact that there is essentially _no_ defense against this kind of covert attack won't carry much weight in the public mind." 

She nodded back, content that he had made her argument for her. "Looks like you have a bit of a decision to make, don't you?" Her tone was clearly calculated to throw oil on the flames at every turn. Right here, this eerie echo of a former executive secretary's speech patterns guaranteed success. 

"I _have_ made it." 

Her smile fell. The sudden, new self-assurance in _his_ tone went contrary to her plans. 

"I'm going to tell you now exactly what will happen to you." He kept his words dispassionate, taking refuge - at the onset - in cold fact. "The CIA would love to experiment with mental conditioning themselves and simply wipe the memories from your mind. That has a certain flair of justice: to turn your own weapon against you." He mentioned this offhandedly, just to shake her up a bit. "The Secret Service, and most of my staff, would prefer to take no chances on letting you live in the first place." He was human enough to make a suggestion like that, just a little one, even though he could not possibly be serious. 

Whether he was serious or not, Ruth didn't believe that he was lying about the people gathered upstairs. Then there's the latent terror that just mention of the CIA can produce... 

"Instead, you will go fairly on trial." The President paused for effect. "Due to the demands of national security, it _will_ be a military one." 

He relished her visible surprise now. She thought she knew him. She thought she had caught him out, and protected herself against that very option by applying her influence to the last. Going military was very unlike the man she had "controlled" for two weeks. 

"The Judge Advocate General will be as impartial as any civilian court. They won't automatically prosecute you any more harshly because you threatened their Commander-in-Chief. You will have fair representation - a JAG lawyer - and we won't attempt to invent a conspiracy or manufacture evidence in order to bring about a tougher sentence. I won't allow that. I won't testify against you, and I won't bring any executive power to bear in the hopes of darkening your case. I will stand back and allow the due process of law to take its proper course. This is not political bartering; this is legal and moral justice. No extenuating circumstances. Only the facts and the truth." 

For several seconds, Ruth did not speak. Military court or not, all of this seemed to weigh heavily in her favor - too heavily. She must have suspected that a bomb was about to drop. 

"Yes, _sir._ Even if this doesn't come out until after you leave office, we can't have a legal railroading mar the integrity of the White House. Otherwise, your successors will pay for _your_ actions." 

Bartlet did not rise to her bait. "They'll suffer even more if your plot gets out, because someone else will try to pick up where you failed." 

"Looks like you're in a spot." 

"No less than you are." Her silence proved that she agreed with him. "You might as well resign yourself to _this_ truth: your conviction is a done deal. A military court handles things differently. Circumstantial evidence has far more bearing there than in the civilian world. And - just so you won't be surprised by this - no jury. Only a panel of judges." 

That meant she would have no opportunity to play her "spin" games at all. For once, this very composed woman looked uncertain. 

"So I'd say you can realistically look forward to a life sentence, with parole maybe in ten to twenty-five years. No one attacks the President and gets a slap on the wrist." 

While she pondered this sobering news, her former boss went on. 

" _My_ big problem is that I can't let the actual scope of your intent get out. I'm not worried so much about my political career or my historical legacy, but about the after-effects on the White House, the nation, future administrations, and the world. There are a lot of other countries where something like this could be even more devastating, in the short run at least. This is a real international problem you've left me with, thanks very much. I have to preserve world stability, and I have to set an example for all other leaders. Just because I was the victim isn't enough of an excuse - certainly not in _my_ eyes. And ultimately not in history's eyes, either." 

He didn't wait for a response, getting nicely into stride. "The actual details of the case will never be published. The released record will report a much less serious charge, just enough to satisfy the press. That'll be simple, since even a minor offense _here_ is never treated lightly. Before and during the trial, the military will be able to seal the matter. Your attorney will advise you fairly, but he or she can't talk about it outside. And neither will you." 

"Oh, really?" The first spark of anger flared at being so summarily lectured to. 

Besides, this wasn't trivia. This was _truth._ And, from her perspective, very unwelcome truth at that. 

"Trust me on this one. During your sentence, you can't be denied visitors. And you won't be. But any visitor, no matter whom, will be warned that if they talk to anyone else about anything you tell them, they'll be hit with criminal charges themselves." 

Ruth mulled this over. She would have to admit - to herself at least - that, with the full weight of the federal government poised against them, nobody would be too inclined to break the rules. 

The President could not have missed that dawning comprehension. He had to savor it a _little._ "However long or short your sentence might be, it will certainly be longer than my term of office, even if I _do_ win the next election. And, while we're at it, quite possibly longer than my life. More to the _point,_ I don't want my final years or months in office to be crippled by legal entanglements. I still have too much important work to do on the nation's behalf. Besides, this is to protect my office and the people who come after, not me personally. That's the only reason I'm going along with this." 

"Yeah, _sure._ " Those two words contained a new note of bitterness. Could that be the first sign of defeat? 

This time he displayed a touch of pity. "Now I rather doubt that a sociopath such as yourself has much in the way of friends. In order to have friends, you have to have trust. But you just use people and then discard them. I don't know if you have family who cares about you, or if you've cut yourself off from them. After all, you wouldn't want your White House background check to turn up anything they did that might taint _you,_ right? If so, they might well return the favor once they hear you've been accused of treason. You're going to be pretty lonely." 

Ruth hadn't lost her nerve yet. "I don't care." 

"Doesn't surprise me. All you need is one other person to take your story to the world. If you can publish anything that attacks me, then no litigation against you can undo the damage. Or so you think. But here is where your thinking breaks down." That look of pity grew stronger. "You don't understand the concept of loyalty. You don't realize how alone you are." 

"I don't need any extra help to make your life a _lot_ more difficult." 

"Probably true." For some strange reason, Bartlet didn't look too worried. "All you have to do is wait for the opportunity. You'll have the chance to serve out your sentence in dignity, and you'll have the chance to start your life anew. However, you will be closely monitored for the rest of your life. If you set one toe over the line in the future, you'll get no second chance." That in itself would not deter her from talking, but it would get her thinking. 

His mode of attack hardened. "The White House lawyers will make sure that you won't be able to publish so much as a paragraph about this - not you, not anyone ghosting for you - anywhere in the world. They won't care if it's the 'National Enquirer.' You won't be giving any interviews, either. You are not going to reap any reward for your actions, either in money or in revenge. That would be a final insult as well as a security breach, and I don't want either. If you try to stand on a street corner and shout your story, you'll be slapped with additional charges at once. This is a matter of national importance, and no different from conditions applied to any traitors in the past." 

Ruth was fast losing her own restraint. Her words dripped venom. "You can stop me from getting information out of my cell, but you can't do a damned thing once I'm out and you know it. I could spin a tale to a neighbor, a reporter, a _barfly_ \- about how I was mistreated and denied justice by Not-to-be-Trusted Bartlet. Even twenty-five years later, it will still ruin your good name. Even if you're dead by then, you wouldn't want _that!_ " 

The President did not give an inch. "Twenty-five years is a long time in the public mindset. It would negate the worst effects of what you've done, and let history be the final judge of all. I'd be more than willing to abide by that. But there are still other factors to consider: national and international reasons why all this has to be sealed. You've done a remarkably thorough job of forcing me to play your game to the very last card. So fine; here it is." 

Slowly, he moved a single step closer. 

"We have a contingency plan." 

Between the words and the deliberate approach towards his prisoner, he could not have appeared more menacing. In the most instinctive of reactions, she shrank back. 

"Don't worry; we won't cut out your vocal chords. That wouldn't stop you from writing. Even if you were totally paralyzed, you could still work out some code by blinking your eyes." He let it sink in that he had actually thought about such an alternative, or more likely been presented with the suggestion by someone else, even if he had no intention of considering it. "Besides, I won't permit that kind of barbarism anyway. Also, if this gets out in the future, there's a good chance someone will raise a stink. Hopefully, if it does, it'll be in the _far_ future." 

Ruth looked more than ready to challenge that hope. 

"This trial will be sealed. But that doesn't mean the records won't be _very_ complete. I want it unassailably clear that you were treated fairly. This is not for the sake of any legacy I might leave, but for the sake of the Presidency itself, whoever happens to hold that office at the time - not to mention the entire concept of human rights. I will not deprive even _you_ of justice." Pause. "However, I _will_ most definitely deprive you of such a powerful weapon as the claim that you were denied justice." 

"If I make such a claim," she said with vibrating contempt, "someone somewhere will believe me. I don't _need_ proof." 

"Sad, but true," Bartlet admitted at once. "Hence our plan of last resort." He settled back on his heels, in his trademark manner when about to unleash a new tidbit of trivia. "Now what do you suppose would be the ultimate deterrent for a person in your situation? A person with your total lack of morality? Not bribery; I'm sure I couldn't pay you enough to forego the sadistic delight of wreaking some revenge. Not physical punishment; you know I would never sanction it. Not an extended sentence; quite aside from the fact that I wouldn't abuse the system that way either, it's still no guarantee against a leak. Not a threatened execution; you wouldn't be fooled. Besides, there's something to be said for going out with a bang - you'd still get your chance for a public statement, even if it's from the lethal injection chamber." 

Ruth met his glare steadily, her smile back in place. Still, he had to have something in mind, because this recital of factors against him contained no note of weakness. 

"And once the word got out, nothing we could possibly do to you would reverse the damage. In fact, doing anything at all to you would only make matters worse for us." 

Her smile broadened, once again superior and smug. "Looks like I win come what may." 

"Or... maybe not." The President adopted a curiously amiable posture, one that would have warned anyone who really knew him. "I know one thing you'd like very much, something you haven't got yet, something more valuable even than the wealth you've just missed." 

"Freedom," she announced simply. 

"And I can give it to you." That really _did_ surprise her. "Not just physical freedom, though. You want credit for your plan. You'd rather be vilified as an evil genius than ignored or unknown. So long as the world doesn't know, you're a prisoner. With or without bars." 

Her gaze shifted, searching for meaning, trying to understand. 

"You think you're still in control right now, even while you're in custody - just like you were when you sat outside my office. Well, I'm here to tell you that you aren't anymore. You have only one weapon left in your arsenal: the fear of public knowledge. The irony here is, it's a weapon I can use as well." 

Ruth frowned. "You can't tell the world what a bad person I am without telling them why. That's no advantage to you, and it'd be free press coverage for me. So why don't you get to whatever crux you have in mind?" 

Bartlet's bright blue eyes narrowed. "The crux - your cross, your form of execution - is this. If you do talk... if one word of this gets out... now or anytime in the future... whether you're in jail or not... whether you're to _blame_ for the leak or not... you will be held accountable. The White House will launch a very special assault: one aimed exclusively at you. A smear campaign, pure and simple. You said it yourself: the public will readily believe the worst in people. It doesn't have to be factual - just entertaining. This campaign I'm talking about will be that for sure... and it will make any accusation you level at me pale by comparison. It will make your name a household word for mockery. You'll become the laughingstock of the nation. You'll never live it down." He spoke as solemnly as a judge on the bench. "The most vociferous protest won't be enough to convince the world at large that you're innocent. You'll go bankrupt long before you could pay enough lawyers to clear your name in a civil case. You'll never be able to show your face in public again; your family and your descendants will want nothing to do with you and your new reputation." 

This was a master speaker. His voice steadily increased in strength and confidence, and it had always been resonant. 

The first glint of fear forced its way past Ruth's guard and onto her face. 

"You see where I'm going with this. We're talking about ego here: the Achilles tendon in each of us. And ego is the only thing you have left. I can't conceive of anything more painful than to go down in the history books as an object of public scorn. Imagine: being thought farcical by the entire nation." 

She cringed at the idea. 

"Not only would you be denied billing as the woman who almost overthrew the U.S. President, but you would be subject to the full injustice of a false accusation for the rest of your life - and for generations to come, I might add. After all, that's what you planned to do to me - or have me do to myself - once you'd wrung out every bit of value you could. Right?" Now that was a chilling image. 

Then The Man's tone brightened to an almost merry level. "Best of all, anything you say about your grand scheme won't be believed, either. Any damage you think you can do to me or my successors would be minimal at worst." 

"You'd be spreading a lie," Ruth almost croaked, scrambling for new, solid ground. For any defense still to be had. His moral character was so strong that even a villain like this instinctively appealed to it. 

"Technically, yes. A constructed fantasy, tailored to your personality." Bartlet exhaled, in some genuine regret. "I don't have any great love for this concept - but I have to think about protecting the future of the American government and the stability of the world. The stakes are kind of high right now. I have no personal wish to hurt your self-esteem the way you've bruised mine; I'm not into this eye-for-an-eye philosophy. If you force my hand, though..." He opened both hands, absolving himself of responsibility. "Then you won't lose only your physical freedom, but your freedom of identity as well." 

"What..." she actually required an effort to speak, "could you _possibly_ have planned that you think can defame me enough for this gambit?" 

He raised both eyebrows. "I have no details at all. But my whole staff is gunning for the idea. Toby and Sam are currently channeling their feelings towards invention. They know they have to puncture a _very_ well-armored ego and a bad case of self-deception. Whatever they do invent, it'll be bad. For you, that is. Plus, C.J. can spin anything and make it _live._ You know these people. You know what they're capable of." 

Ruth certainly did know. She had seen first-hand the skill Toby and Sam possessed in writing, and C.J.'s talent before reporters. She knew that Leo was the greatest political bulldog, and Josh the second greatest. She knew their dedication; she knew how much effort they would pour into this illusion. She knew how convincing they would be... and how merciless they would be - far more so than their leader ever _could_ be for sure. 

She looked ready to have a heart attack right here. Also, just wondering what on earth they could come up with would drive her half-mad in itself. 

"They wouldn't have to be _in_ the White House, either," the President added. "They could be anywhere in the world, but they'd come together to defend me and my office." 

He basked in the affection for his friends and pride in their abilities. His erstwhile controller had no one to back her up. He had the best. She was alone. He wasn't - not anymore - and never would be again. She has no character witnesses, no "friends," no one at all; he has the finest minds of this generation. This was the ultimate reversal of the situation she'd put _him_ in: where he had no one at all to support him... or so he had thought. And the real serendipity is that Bartlet himself realized it in full. 

So much for any hope Ruth might have had left. Considering whom those staffers would be spinning the story _for,_ she had to know that they would never quit. They'd be on it for the rest of her life, and even beyond. 

She had been backed into a corner, from which there was no escape. 

"But none of this will happen," her leader promised. "Unless the story breaks." 

Suddenly, she had a very good reason indeed to want to keep mum... and to keep others from knowing as well. To save her public face and dignity, she will have to actively work with the White House, the Secret Service and any other federal organization involved. Her friends and relatives, if she has any, would be a direct threat to the secret, so she couldn't confide in them at all. If just one of them let something slip... She'd have to keep the secret from _everybody._ No room for boasting, for revenge, for maliciously destroying the person who had destroyed _her,_ for getting the credit she was almost frantic to claim. Nothing. No one would ever know how close she came to toppling the leader of the free world. 

"However, if you comply with these _conditions,_ you have a hope of living some semblance of a normal life again. No one can claim that this is anything other than a merciful decision by the courts and by me. It all depends on you." 

What other alternative was there? Locking her up in a secret dungeon and throwing away the key? Execution? Surely Bartlet could be forgiven for failing to quench the triumph in his voice at last. He had presented this woman, this enemy, with justice, mercy and a future... and still managed to protect his office, his nation and the world. He had been forced to play just as hard as she did, and he still came through it without descending to her level. 

By now Ruth was scared - scared enough to never quite dare take the chance that he might be bluffing. To her shock, she had discovered that this was not the unknowing puppet she had played with. This was the President. 

The Man was back. In a way, he had achieved more healing here, speaking with her, than from the concerted efforts of all those who loved him. 

She had lost. 

This fact broadcast itself in the slump of her shoulders. It was all the surrender any man would desire. 

However, Bartlet had not quite finished. He folded his arms, and his vision darkened even more if that were possible. "I have just one question for you." 

"Only one?" Ruth's voice had lost its power, its arrogance, its strength. She just stared listlessly at the tabletop. 

He waited, letting the seconds tick past, until finally she looked up at him. 

His voice was soft - lethally so. "Did you arrange Delores Landingham's accident almost a year ago?" 

Behind him, a past expert at fading into the background, Ron went rigid. Obviously he had never considered this himself. 

Beaten and condemned, Ruth just returned the look. 

The propane flame in the President's glare mounted. "You must have figured out that she would never be fired, and that she'd never resign. You had no hope of rising to that desk before my term ended - not so long as she was still alive." 

Ruth sneered. "Why should I even answer? You've got no reason to believe a denial. At least I can repay you in some small fashion after all: with your own suspicions." The ghost of her original smirk reappeared; she had one final thrust after all. 

Their visions locked, like sword-blades straining against each other. That blue flare grew hotter, leaping and crackling. 

Slowly, she started to wilt under the sheer power of his unvoiced rage. Slowly, genuine fear crossed her features... as she saw, with stunning certainty, that right here, right now, heedless of all laws and decency, Jed Bartlet was prepared to act on his suspicions. Violently. 

Not caring a wit for the two Secret Service agents whose duty it would be to protect him by stopping him. 

She sat very still, pressed against the back of her chair, scarcely able to breathe. This inferno of emotion seared her from ten feet away. 

"No." The single word came out barely above a whisper. "But... I had plans." The admission seemed to be dragged out against her will. "I _didn't_ plan to wait forever."

* * *

Dear God. Do I dare believe? 


End file.
